r 


BERKELEY 

LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY    OF 
CALIFORNIA 


I 


/j^^^**^^ 


\ 


'-^  V--  i 


BEATKIOE 


\^ 


BT 


JULIA  ^VANAGH, 


AUTHOR  OP 

'^♦NATHALIE,"     "ADELE,"     "QUEEN     MAB,'» 

ETC.,  ETC. 


THREE   VOLUMES.  J2T  ONE. 


NEW  YORK : 

D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY, 

44:3  &  445  BROADWAY. 

1865. 


q^5 
K2.1 


BEATEIOE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

The  night  was  very  bleak.  The  wind  blew  keen  and  strong, 
as,  pushing  open  the  garden  gate,  Mr.  Richard  Gordon  stumbled 
on  through  the  darkness  to  the  door  of  his  cottage.  When  he 
reached  it  he  stood  still  and  wiped  his  forehead,  on  which  the 
perspiration  stood  in  thick  drops,  cold  though  the  evening  was, 
and  slowly  though  he  had  walked  home  from  the  City.  He  did 
not  knock  at  once,  and  twice,  when  he  stretched  his  hand  towards 
the  brass  ring,  he  let  it  fall  down  again.  At  length  he  took 
heart,  and  a  feeble  knock,  scarcely  like  that  of  the  master  of  the 
house,  startled  Mrs.  Gordon  from  her  sleep  on  the  sofa,  in  the 
warm  parlour. 

"  That  cannot  be  Richard,"  she  thought,  sitting  up  and.  list- 
ening for  her  husband's  voice  ;  but  it  was  he,  for  she  heard  him 
saying  to  the  servant : 

"  Jane,  where  is  the  child?  " 

"  Miss  Beatrice  is  at  the  Martins',  sir."  , 

"  Oh  !  very  weU." 

Mr.  Gordon  opened  the  parlour  door  and  entered.  The 
cheerful  light  of  the  bright  coal  fire  in  the  grate  fell  on  his  face. 
It  was  deathly  pale,  and  as  Mr.  Gordon  was  a  pale,  fair  man, 
who  always  looked  delicate,  he  now  looked  very  ill  indeed. 

"  My  dear  Richard,"  cried  his  wife,  much  startled,  "  what 
ails  you?" 

"  I  am  not  quite  well.     Where  is  the  child?" 

"  My  dear,  she  is  at  the  Martins',  opposite." 

Mr.  Gordon  went  to  the  window.  He  lifted  up  the  blind  and 
looked  out  across  the  street,  at  a  range  of  windows  on  the  first 
floor  of  a  house  facing  his  cottage. 

The  street  was  dark,  save  for  the  flitting  glare  of  the  gas- 


JW872923 


4  BEATEICE. 

lights,  but  the  house  of  the  Martins  was  gaily  lit  up,  and  childish 
shadows,  magnified  into  grotesque  proportions,  were  moving 
across  the  blinds.  One  Mr.  Gordon  watched  for,  and  saw  at 
last.  It  was  shorter  than  the  rest,  and  it  had  heavy  curls,  which 
it  shook  back  with  a  quick,  impatient  toss  of  its  little  head.  Mr. 
Gordon  looked  at  it  for  some  time,  then  came  back  to  the  fire 
and  sat  down  at  a  little  distance  from  his  wife.  She  saw  him 
shiver,  and  she  said  a  little  crossly, 

"  Did  you  do  as  I  told  you,  Mr.  Gordon?  Did  you  take  the 
omnibus?" 

"  No,  my  dear.     I  walked  home." 

"  And  took  cold,  I  can  see  it.  You  will  drive  me  distracted, 
Mr.  Gordon.  X  wish  you  would  take  my  advice  sometimes. 
But  you  never  will,  Mr.  Gordon." 

Mr.  Gordon  made  no  reply,  and  his  wife  looked  fretfully  at 
the  fire.  She  too  was  fair,  a  pretty  woman  of  thirty,  with  blue 
eyes  and  a  clear  complexion,  spite  habitual  ill-health,  which  sel- 
dom let  her  leave  the  couch  on  which  she  was  now  lying,  and 
which  had  somewhat  impaired  a  temper  both  gentle  and  loving. 
But  as  she  was  fond  of  her  husband  after  all,  and  could  not  bear  to 
think  that  he  was  ill  or  in  pain,  she  soon  said  in  a  more  amiable 
tone — 

"  Take  something  warm,  Richard." 

Mr.  Gordon  seemed  to  waken  out  of  a  dream,  and,  looking 
vacantly  at  his  wife,  he  replied — 

"  No  thank  you.     I  shall  go  to  bed." 

"  Why,  it  is  only  seven,  Richard  ! " 

Again  Mrs.  Gordon  spoke  crossly,  for  she  liked  sitting  up 
late  and  getting  up  late  too,  and  she  wanted  her  husband  to  go 
on  with  the  novel  he  had  begun  reading  aloud  to  her. 

"  Ah  !  to  be  sure,  it  is  only  seven,  but  it  is  very  cold." 

He  shivered  again,  and  again  Mrs.  Gordon  was  going  to  ad- 
vise something  hot,  when  a  double  knock  was  heard  at  the  street 
door,  and  Mr.  Gervoise  was  announced. 

A  tall  and  very  handsome  man,  with  flowing  fair  hair,  gold 
spectacles,  and  a  manner  both  grand  and  dignified,  was  shown  in. 
Hfi  bowed  most  courteously  to  Mrs.  Gordon,  then  turned  to  her 
husband. 

"  My  dear  Gordon,  how  are  you?"  he  affectionately  asked, 
looking  at  him  from  behind  his  shining  glasses.  "  A  leetle  pale, 
I  think." 

"  Mr.  Gordon  would  not  take  the  omnibus,"  began  Mrs. 
Gordon. 


BEATRICE.  5 

"  Ah  !  I  see — just  so — ve — ^ry  naughty." 

Mr.  Gervoise  sat  down  and  looked  hard  at  the  master  of  the 
house.  That  gentleman  seemed  to  wince  under  the  gaze,  and 
leaning  his  cheek  on  his  hand,  he  stared  at  the  carpet. 

"  Any  news  ? "  asked  Mr.  Gervoise,  and  as  he  spoke  his 
strong  French  accent  became  more  perceptible.  ^ 

"  I  met  Raby,"  replied  Mr.  Gordon  with  a  start. 

"  Ah !  our  good  friend  Raby.  And  what  did  he  say  about 
me?" 

Mr.  Gordon  did  not  seem  to  hear  him,  at  least  he  did  not 
answer.  When  he  raised  his  pale  face  it  was  to  say,  with  a 
shudder, 

"  How  cold  it  must  be  in  Kensal  Green  to-night !  " 

A  keen  blast  which  blew  round  the  cottage  gave  his  words 
more  force. 

"  I  wish,  Mr.Jprordon,  you  would  not  be  horrid  ! "  entreated 
Mrs.  Gordon,  pettishly. 

"  I  can  see  that  our  friend  Gordon  is  not  well,"  emphatically 
said  Mr.  Gervoise.  "  Gordon,  my  good  fellow,  go  to  bed, 
sleep  soundly,  you  will  get  up  a  new  man  to-morrow  morning." 

Mr.  Gordon  rubbed  his  forehead  thoughtfully,  but,  after  a 
while,  rose  and  said  he  would  follow  the  advice ;  he  felt  cold, 
and  would  go  to  bed,  as  Mr.  Gervoise  suggested.  So  he  bade 
them  good  night  and  retired.  The  door  had  scarcely  closed 
upon  him  when  Mr.  Gervoise's  glasses  beamed  full  upon  Mrs. 
Gordon. 

"  I  hope  our  friend  has  had  no  unpleasant  news? "  he  said. 

"Oh!  dear,  no." 

"  He  looks  pale." 

"  Oh  !  it  is  all  coming  along  that  endless  Kensington  Road, 
and  not  taking  the  omnibus.  I  don't  know,  Mr.  Gervoise,  what 
made  Mr.  Gordon  take  this  place,  where  we  are  quite  out  of  the 
world,  and  I  don't  see  a  soul.  I  get  quite  low  at  times,  I  assure 
you." 

"  I  thought  London  air  was  bad  for  you." 

"  I  am  never  better  than  in  London.  But  Mr.  Gordon  would 
bring  me  out  here  to  this  wilderness." 

Mr.  Gervoise  was  going  to  condole  with  Mrs.  Gordon  on 
this  unfortunate  obstinacy  of  Mr.  Gordon's,  when  a  sharp  knock 
at  the  cottage  door  announced  Miss  Beatrice  Gordon's  return. 

"  Where  is  papa?  "  the  tenants  of  the  parlour  heard  her  say- 
ing, and  equally  audible  was  Jane's  answer. 

"  He  is  gone  to  bed,  miss." 


6  BEATRICE. 

"  Jane,  you  must  not  let  her  go  up  to  Mr.  Gordon,  he  is 
tired,"  said  Mrs.  Gordon,  raising  her  voice  ;  "  come  here,  Bea- 
trice." 

The  parlour  door  opened,  and  Beatrice  Gordon,  a  small, 
dark  child,  with  heavy  curls,  which  she  was  ever  tossing  back, 
appeared  on  the  threshold  of  the  room.  She  drew  back  at  once 
on  seeing  Mr.  Gervoise. 

"  Good  evening,  my  dear,"  he  said  graciously. 

Beatrice  did  not  answer. 

"  Come  in  and  shake  hands  with  Mr.  Gervoise,"  said  Mrs. 
Gordon ;  "  well  then,"  she  added,  crossly,  as  the  child  did  not 
stir,  "  I  wish  you  would  shut  the  door,  Beatrice,  there  is  such  a 
draught." 

The  door,  which  was  noiselessly  closed,  was  Beatrice's  an- 
swer to  her  mother's  request. 

"  She  is  so  obstinate,"  sighed  Mrs.  Gordon ;  ''just  like  her 
father  in  temper." 

"  And  like  her  mother  in  person,"  politely  said  Mr.  Gervoise  ; 
"  a  pretty  child." 

"  No,  she  is  not  like  me,  Mr.  Gervoise,  we  do  not  know 
whom  the  child  is  like  ;  she  is  dark,  and  we  are  fair.  Mr.  Gor- 
don will  have  it  that  she  is  like  some  one  in  his  family  who  was 
called  Beatrice  some  hundred  years  ago ;  but  why  my  child 
should  be  called  Beatrice,  I  never  was  able  to  understand.  It  is 
just  like  taking  this  cottage,  forty  pounds  a  year,  and  only  three 
bedrooms." 

Mr.  Gervoise  acknowledged  the  similarity  of  the  evils,  and, 
in  the  same  breath,  somewhat  irrelevantly  observed, 

"  And  so  you  do  not  think  Mr.  Gordon  has  had  impleasant 
news  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  dear,  no,"  replied  Mrs.  Gordon,  looking  surprised  at 
the  suggestion  ;  "he  only  came  from  the  City." 

"Bless  me!"  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  with  a  start,  "now  you 
mention  it,  I  have  business  in  the  City !  Eight  o'clock !  Oh  !  I 
must  be  off,  or  I  shall  be  late.  Good  evening,  Mrs.  Gordon ; 
don't  stir,  and  do  not  be  uneasy  about  Gordon,  a  good  night's 
rest  will  set  him  up  again." 

In  vain  Mrs.  Gordon  tried  to  detain  him,  again  Mr.  Ger- 
voise assured  her  that  Gordon  would  be  all  right  to-morrow ;  and 
with  this  assurance  he  was  gone. 

Scarcely  had  the  garden  gate  closed  upon  him  when  the  par- 
lor door  opened,  and  Beatrice  made  her  appearance.     She  went 


BEATRICE.  7 

up  to  her  mother,  and  attempted  to  kiss  her,  but  Mrs.  Gordon 
pushed  her  away,  and  said,  crossly : 

*'  I  am  very  angry  with  you,  Beatrice,  and  you  know  why." 
Beatrice  did  know  why,  so  she  did  not  question  her  mother, 
but  sat  down  on  a  hassock  and  looked  at  the  fire  with  much 
gravity. 

"  You  must  go  to  bed,"  said  Mrs.  Gordon,  "  it  is  quite  late." 
Beatrice  generally  objected  to  going  to  bed  early,  but  know- 
ing herself  in  the  wrong  this  evening,  she  stole  out  of  the  parlour 
mute  as  a  mouse,  and  crept  up-stairs,  followed  by  Jane.  "When 
they  had  reached  the  first  floor,  and  Jane  was  opening  the  door 
of  the  child's  bed-room,  Beatrice,  who  had  been  watching  her 
opportunity,  made  a  dart  forward,  and  was  in  her  father's 
room  in  a  moment.  Fearful  of  waking  her  master,  Jane  did  not 
dare  to  speak,  whilst  Beatrice,  climbing  up  on  a  chair,  reached 
the  pillow  on  which  his  head  lay,  and  softly  kissed  his  pale  face. 
Mr.  Gordon  was  so  fast  asleep  that  he  heard  and  felt  nothing, 
and,  withdrawing  on  tiptoe,  Beatrice  joined  the  servant,  thor- 
oughly reckless  of  her  whispered  scolding.  In  the  same  spirit  of 
magnanimous  indifference  she  said  her  prayers,  went  to  bed,  and 
fell  fast  asleep,  dreaming,  as  she  often  did,  of  an  old  red  brick 
mansion,  with  four  stone  fountains,  and  noble  trees,  of  which  her 
father  had  told  her  many  times. 

Whilst  both  father  and  child  slept  up-stairs,  Mrs.  Gordon  lay 
Swake  on  the  couch  below,  deploring  Mr.  Gordon's  obstinacy, 
and  the  cottage  and  Beatrice's  name,  and  her  own  hard  lot. 
Twelve  struck,  when  she  rang  for  Jane,  who  was  drowsily  sew- 
ing by  the  kitchen  fire,  and  requested  to  be  helped  up-stairs. 
"We  are  bound  to  say  that  Mrs.  Gordon  was  equal  to  going  up 
the  staircase*  alone,  but  neither  the  doctor  nor  her  husband  had 
been  able  to  convince  her  of  this  fact.  When  she  reached  her 
room,  Mrs.  Gordon  dismissed  Jane,  and  she  was  vexed  to  find 
that,  her  husband  being  fast  asleep,  she  could  not  murmur  in  her 
pretty,  peevish  way.  Mr.  Gordon  was  certainly  following  Mr. 
Gervoise's  advice  in  a  remarkable  manner ;  he  was  sleeping  so 
soundly,  that  Mrs.  Gordon  was  surprised  and,  on  second  thoughts, 
glad.  He  had  had  bad  nights  of  late  ;  this  would  do  him  good. 
So  she  laid  herself  down  very  softly  by  his  side,  and  was  careful 
not  to  stir.  But  there  was  a  part  of  Mr.  Gervoise's  advice 
which  Mr.  Gordon  did  not  follow.  He  did  not  waken  a  new 
man  the  next  morning,  for  when  the  sun  shone  in  at  his  window, 
Mr.  Gordon  lay  cold  and  dead  near  his  sleeping  wife. 


CHAPTER  II. 

"  Died  of  complaint  of  the  heart."  Thus  ran  the  verdict  of 
the  coroner's  jury.  Another  verdict  was  recorded  in  a  wiser  and 
a  better  world  than  this  ;  but  the  jury  spoke  according  to  their 
knowledge,  and  if  this  was  human  and  limited,  the  blame  rests 
not  with  them. 

Mr.  Gordon  was  buried  in  Kensal  Green ;  and  there  he 
sleeps  to  this  day.  A  plain  slab,  "  sacred  to  his  memory,"  and 
erected  by  his  "  sorrowing  widow,"  marks  the  spot,  but  neither 
tells  the  brief  story  of  his  life,  nor  mentions  the  cause  of  his 
death.  Of  one  there  was  little  to  say ;  of  the  other  nothing 
certain  was  ever  known,  though  in  time  something  was  con- 
jectured. 

Richard  Gordon,  Esq.,  was  a  Scotchman,  of  gentle  and 
ancient  blood.  He  inherited  some  thirty  thousand  pounds  from 
his  father,  married  for  love  a  pretty  girl,  who  had  fifty  pounds  a 
year  ;  and  having  lost  the  best  part  of  his  capital  in  unsuccessful 
ventures,  he  found  himself  reduced  to  an  income  which  did  not 
reach  three  hundred  pounds.  In  this  emergency,  Mr.  Gordon 
showed  judgment ;  instead  of  going  headlong  to  ruin  by  keeping 
up  the  establishment  of  a  man  who  (^an  spend  his  fifteen  hundred 
yearly,  "  he  left  the  world,"  as  his  wife  said,  crossly,  and  retired 
to  a  forty  pound  cottage  in  quiet  Kensington. 

The  time  was  not  yet  gone  when  the  London  suburbs  were 
pleasant  places  in  their  way.  They  had  then  fair  wide  streets, 
where  carriage-wheels  were  heard  at  decent  intervals ;  broad 
roads,  along  which  goodly  stage-coaches  and  steady  omnibuses 
bore  their  burdens  to  the  City  ;  above  all,  they  had  quiet  terraces, 
squares,  cottages,  and  villas  adorned  with  gardens,  in  which 
abode  the  world  of  retired  tradesmen,  decayed  gentlewomen,  shy 
artists,  city  men  with  large  families,  and  of  all  people  whose 
tastes  and  means  forbade  them  the  devouring  Babylon.  Then, 
too,  green  fields,  a  few  mansions  and  their  grounds,  hawthorn 
hedges,  and  shady  lanes  gave  these  suburbs  an  attraction  which 


BEATRICE.  9 

-•* 

they  have  now  forsworn  ;  for  then  railways  had  not  sent  hissing 
engines  across  the  country,  or  spanned  streets  with  bridges,  and 
cabs,  and  porters,  and  traffic  had  not  learned  to  crowd  around 
noisy  stations.  Common-place  were  these  suburbs,  we  grant, 
but  they  were  calm  and  peaceful.  They  have  given  that  up 
now ;  they  are  but  the  edge  of  the  great  City — an  edge  of  brick 
and  mortar,  which  once  was  green  as  any  garland,  and  faded 
away  pleasantly  into  the  soft  hazy  blue  of  the  horizon. 

But  though  Mrs.  Gordon's  cottage  was  a  pleasant  and  cheer- 
ful one,  though  it  was  convenient  and  cheap,  the  funeral  was 
scarcely  over  when  Mrs.  Gordon  assured  Mr.  Gervoise  she  could 
not  stay  in  it.  She  had  never  liked  it,  and  she  hated  it  now. 
'-'  It  was  the  coming  along  that  horrid  Kensington  Road  which 
had  killed  her  dear  husband — she  was  sure  it  was." 

This  resolve  Mrs.  Gordon  felt  bound  to  mention  to  Mr.  Ger- 
voise, who  was  not  merely  one  of  the  two  trustees  appointed  by 
the  late  Mr.  Gordon's  will,  but  also  the  guardian  of  his  only 
child. 

"  And  Mr.  Gervoise,"  she  continued,  plaintively,  "  I  must 
sell  all  this  furniture.  We  bought  it  to  come  to  this  horrid  little 
cottage,  which  killed  him,  and  I  cannot  bear  the  sight  of  it.  And 
when  you  can  let  me  have  a  hundred  pounds  or  so,  you  will 
obHge  me,  Mr.  Gervoise.  The  funeral  and  our  mourning  have 
taken  all  the  ready  money  in  the  house." 

*'  May  I  ask  how  much  you  ha^e  in  hand,  ma'am?" 

"  Five  pounds." 

"And  is  not  your  income  soon  due?" 

"  It  is  a  half-yearly  thing,  not  payable  till  March.  That  is 
why  I  want  a  hundred  pounds  to  go  on  with." 

Mr.  Gervoise  played  with  his  watch-guard,  and  said : 

"  I  shall  speak  to  Mr.  Raby,  ma'am." 

"But  why  are  there  trustees?"  asked  Mrs.  Gordon,  a  little 
crossly ;  "  you  know,  Mr.  Gervoise,  I  mean  no  reflection  upon 
you,  but  I  really  think  it  strange  my  dear  husband  would  not 
confide  that  paltry  ten  thousand  to  me.  I  am  sure  I  gave  ^im 
many  proofs  of  my  judgment,  and  as  to  marrying  again " 

A  burst  of  tears  checked  the  rest. 

"  I  shall  speak  to  Mr.  Raby,"  again  said  Mr.  Gervoise  ;  and 
leaving  the  back  parlour,  in  which  this  conversation  had  taken 
place,  he  entered  that  in  front,  where  Mr.  Raby,  the  other 
trustee,  was  waiting.  The  table  was  heaped  with  papers ;  for 
the  two  gentlemen  had  emptied  Richard  Gordon's  desk,  and  had 
had  a  long  talk  over  its  contents.  Mr.  Raby  looked  anxious  and 
1* 


10  BEATRICE. 

fidgety,  and  the  look  was  that  which  was  most  averse  to  his 
countenance. 

Mr.  Raby,  a  childless  widower  in  easy  circumstances,  was 
also  a  middle-aged  man  with  dull  blue  eyes,  flabby  cheeks,  a 
thick  utterance,  and  a  moderate  share  of  intellect.  He  was  bom 
to  pass  easily  and  lazily  through  life,  and  especially  to  shun  all 
its  troubles.  He  often  wondered  that  he  had  ever  married ;  he 
did  not  know,  he  said,  how  he  came  to  do  it.  And  still  more 
did  he  wonder  how  he  had  been  so  foolishly  weak  as  to  let 
Richard  Gordon  get  over  him,  and  make  a  trustee  of  him.  Ten 
times  at  least  had  he  expressed  that  wonder  to  Mr.  Gervoise  in 
the  course  of  the  morning  ;  and  if  he  did  not  greet  him  now  with 
another  wondering  exclamation  to  the  same  purport,  it  was  that 
he  felt  rather  too  anxious  to  know  what  Mr.  Gervoise  was  going 
to  say.     Mr.  Gervoise  sat  down,  and  said  nothing. 

"Well?"  asked  Mr.  Raby. 

"  W^'U,  Mrs.  Gordan  has  five  pounds." 

"  Are  ^here  any  debts  ?" 

"  No — none." 

Mr.  Raby  sighed  with  evident  relief,  and  said  it  was  a  great 
comfort. 

"Well,  but  what  are  we  trustees  for?"  indignantly  asked 
Mr.  Gervoise;  "where  is  the  property? — where  are  the  ten 
thousand  pounds?" 

"  Gordon  was  always  a  close  fellow,"  said  Mr.  Raby  ;  "  he 
told  me  he  had  ten  thousand  pounds  at  his  banker's,  and,  with 
the  most  unaccountable  weakness,  although  Doctor  Jones  warned 
me  it  would  be  my  death,  I  became  a  trustee ;  however,  the 
property  is  gone,  and  with  it  our  trust — for  where  there  is  no 
property,  there  is  neither  trouble  nor  responsibility." 

But  if  some  people  dislike  trouble  and  responsibility,  some 
other  people  like  them,  and  to  this  latter  class  Mr.  Gervoise 
evidently  belonged.  He  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  played  with 
his  pen,  and  said  at  length : 

"  Are  you  sure  the.  balance  is  no  more  than  sixty  pounds?" 

"  Quite  sure." 

Mr.  Gervoise  took  his  pen,  made  up  the  amount  once  more, 
and  ascertained  that  sixty  pounds,  five  shillings,  and  three  pence 
was  the  exact  amount  Richard  Gordon  had  died  worth. 

"  I  am  quite  amazed  !"  said  Mr.  Gervoise  ;  "  I  understood 
there  was  property,  large  property  coming  in." 

"  Oh  !  that  was  all  moonshine,"  repUed  Mr.  Raby.  "  Poor 
Gordon  was  always  dreaming  about  that  property.     Why,  there 


BEATEICE.  11 

are  three  lives  between  it  and  his  daughter.  No,  there  is  no 
fear  of  your  being  ever  troubled  with  anything  of  the  kind.  I 
am  oufr  of  it,  being  only  a  trustee  ;  but  you,  as  guardian,  might 
be  apprehensive,  of  course." 

This  explanation  did  not  satisfy  Mr.  Gervoise. 

"  I  am  amazed,"  he  said  again ;  "  amazed  and  displeased. 
I  must  say  I  think  it  was  treacherous  of  poor  Gordon  to  inveigle 
me  in  this  matter.  I  must  say  I  think  it  very  mysterious  that 
he  should  draw  out  the  money  the  day  after  signing  his  will — 
very  mysterious.  Perhaps  the  money  is  not  gone,  and  will  turn 
up  some  day."  . 

This  suggestion  seemed  to  alarm  Mr.  Raby. 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Gervoise,"  he  said  eagerly,  "  let  us  do  any 
thing  for  that  poor  lady  and  her  child,  but  pray  let  us  have  done 
with  this  horrid  trust.  I  am  quite  willing  to  lay  down  a  hun- 
dred pounds  to  help  to  set  her  up,  poor  thing !  She  might  open 
a  little  school." 

"Well,  I  can  suggest  it  to  her,"  said  Mr.  Gervojse,  after  a 
while. 

"  Ay !  do,"  still  eagerly  said  Mr.  Raby,  who  was  most  anxious 
to  get  out  of  the  house  before  Mrs.  Gordon  should  know  how 
matters  stood ;  "  and  as  I  may  have  to  go  out  of  town  soon,  I 
had  better  give  you  that  check  at  once." 

To  this  proposal  Mr.  Gervoise  assented.  Mr.  Raby  wrote 
out  and  signed  the  check,  handed  it  to  Mr.  Gervoise,  and  with  a 
sigh  of  relief  stole  out  of  the  cottage,  whilst  his  fellow-trustee 
entered  the  back  parlour,  in  which  Mrs.  Gordon  sat  waiting. 

"  My  dear  madam,"  formally  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  "  I  am 
grieved  to  be  the  bearer  of  unpleasant  tidings,  but  I  dare  say 
you  are  partly  prepared  for  them." 

This  speech  bore  but  one  meaning  to  Mrs.  Gordon's  mind. 
She  could  not  leave  the  cottage,  she  could  not  sell  the  furniture, 
and  she  could  not  have  the  hundred  pounds.  She  looked  blank 
and  irritated,  but  did  not  speak. 

"  I  suppose,"  continued  Mr.  Gervoise,  "  you  can  give  us  no 
clue  to  the  missing  ten  thousand  pounds  ? " 

"  What !"  said  Mrs.  Gordon,  faintly. 

"  We  find  none,"  calmly  continued  Mr.  Gervoise  ;  "  the  day 
after  making  his  will,  JMr.  Gordon  withdrew  from  his  bankers 
the  large  sum  mentioned  in  it ;  and  how  he  disposed  of  that  sum, 
neither  Mr.  Raby  nor  I  can  ascertain." 

"  But  the  money  must  be  found  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Gordon ;  ''  it 
must ! " 


12  BEATEICE. 

"  Well,  I  trust  it  may,  ma'am.  However,  it  is  a  mysterious 
affair.  Mr.  Kaby  and  I  liave  searched  your  husband's  papers, 
and  we  have  found  nothing  but  a  memorandum,  which  agrees 
with  the  banker's  account,  namely,  that  the  balance  in  that  gen- 
tleman's hands  is  sixty  pounds,  five  shillings,  and  three  pence. 
This,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  is  the  whole  amount  of  the  trust  left  to 
us.  Mr.  Raby  and  I  have  agreed  that  it  would  be  ridiculous  to 
invest  such  a  trifle  for  the  benefit  of  your  daughter,  and  we  will 
accordingly  keep  it  for  any  pressing  necessity." 

"  But  it  is  impossible — ^we  cannot  live  upon  that ;  there  must 
be  something  else  !"  cried  poor  Mrs.. Gordon. 

"  There  is  nothing  else,  I  am  sorry  to  say ;  but  Mr.  Raby 
and  I  have  put  our  heads  together,  and  if  opening  a  small  school 
or  letting  furnished  lodgings  and  taking  in  a  boarder  will  answer 
you,  we  will  do  our  best  for  the  widow  of  our  valued  friend." 

Mrs.  Gordon  remained  mute.  She  could  not  realize  that  ter- 
rible calamity,  ruin.  The  sense  of  loss  is  one  of  the  slowest  to 
come  to  us,  so  keen  is  our  love  of  possession,  so  bitter  do  we  find 
it  to  have  no  more  that  which  has  once  been  ours.  She  had  seen 
the  bank-notes  on  the  day  when  her  husband  took  this  wreck  of 
his  fortune  to  the  banker's,  and  she  could  not  believe  that  these 
faithless  servants  had  deserted  her  in  the  hour  of  need. 

"  But,  Mr.  Gervoise,  it  can't  be  ! "  she  said  pitifully. 

"  I  wish  it  could  not  be,  indeed ;  but,  as  I  said,  Mr.  Raby 
and  I  will  assist  you  in  any  of  the  plans  I  have  suggested.  I 
will  not  press  you  for  an  answer  to-day.  I  can  see  your  mind  is 
not  equal  to  it,  but  I  shall  call  again  in  a  few  days,  and  then  I 
trust  1  shall  find  you  in  a  truly  Christian  and  resigned  frame  of 
mind." 

With  this  edifying  speech,  Mr.  Gervoise  left  his  friend's 
widow.  The  door  had  scarcely  closed  upon  him,  when  Beatrice, 
who  had  been  sitting  unheeded  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  and 
whose  red  eyes  told  of  bitter  childish  tears,  crept  up  to  her 
mother. 

"Oh,  my  poor  darling,  what  shall  we  do ! "  cried  Mrs. 
Gordon,  "  what  shall  we  do  !  Your  father  has  left  us  beggars  ! 
what  shall  we  do  !  " 

"  Don't  cry,"  whispered  Beatrice,  looldng  by  no  means 
alarmed  at  the  prospect  of  beggary  thus  held  forth ;  "  I  shall 
work  for  you," 


^4  ''f^'^ff: 


CHAPTEE   in. 

It  was  only  after  ransacking  the  cottage  in  search  of  the 
missing  money  that  Mrs.  Gordon  came  to  the  bitter  conclusion 
that  it  was  really  gone,  and  that  she  was  really  left  with  fifty 
pounds  a-ycar — that  is  to  say,  just  what  would  pay  her  rent  and 
taxes.  And  how  was  she  to  live  ?  That  dear  Richard  had  done 
something  dreadful  with  the  money  was  plain,  and  so  she  told 
Mr.  Gervoise  when  he  called.  He  came  to  know,  and  he  said 
so,  what  Mrs.  Gordon  had  decided  upon.  Instead  of  answering 
the  question,  Mrs.  Gordon  at  once  entered  on  the  subject  upper- 
most in  her  thoughts. 

"  I  am  sure  some  designing  villain  must  have  got  round 
dear  Richard,"  she  said  ;  "  some  wretch  who  advised  a  safe  in- 
vestment. My  poor  husband  was  always  credulous,  and  would 
not  confide  in  my  better  judgment." 

"Very  sad,"  replied  Mr.  Gervoise  ;  "  but  on  which  of  my 
suggestions  are  you  prepared  to  act,  Mrs.  Gordon,  for  I  know 
you  have  too  much  judgment  to  lose  time." 

"  I  cannot  afford  it,  and  I  have  resolved  to  take  in  daily 
pupils,"  replied  Mrs.  Gordon,  to  whom  this  resolve  had  come 
within  the  last  five  minutes,  as,  sitting  near  the  parlour-window, 
she  saw  a  little  girl  pass  by  on  her  way  to  school. 

Mr.  Gervoise  expressed  his  approbation  of  the  plan,  and 
again  informing  her  that  Mr.  Raby  and  he  had  laid  their  heads 
together,  he  handed  her  a  twenty  pound  note,  wished  her  every 
success,  begged  of  her  to  write  at  once  if  she  discovered  the 
missing  money,  and  left  her,  saying  that  he  was  going  into  the 
country  and  would  stay  there  some  time. 

Armed  with  twenty  pounds  sterling,  Mrs.  Gordon  began  her 
battle  with  the  world.  She  called  the  cottage  Rosemary  Cot- 
tage, and  sent  round  circulars,  in  which  she  expressed  her  will- 
ingness to  take  in  eight  young  ladies  as  daily  pupils,  and  one  as 
a  parlour  boarder.  A  good-natured  tradesman  sent  his  two  little 
girls  at  the  end  of  a  fortnight ;  three  more  came  before  six  weeks 


14  BEATRICE. 

were  out,  and  there  stopped  Mrs.  Gordon's  good  fortune.  Scar- 
latina appeared  in  Rosemary  Cottage  ;  one  child  took  it  and  died, 
the  others  fled,  and  Mrs.  Gordon's  school  was  at  an  end. 

She  wrote  to  Mr.  Gervoise,  who  coldly  answered  that,  as  the 
school  had  proved  a  failure,  she  must  try  furnished  lodgings ; 
and  he  enclosed  another  twenty  pounds,  with  a  hint  that  Mrs. 
Gordon  had  better  make  it  go  as  far  as  she  could. 

For  the  first  time  since  her  husband's  death,  Mrs.  Gordon 
felt  bitterness  against  him.  Furnished  lodgings  !  A  bill  in  her 
parlour  window  !  She  surely  could  not  sink  deeper  !  But  ne- 
cessity is  a  hard  master,  and  Mrs.  Gordon  submitted  to  its  teach- 
ing. The  bill  was  put  up,  and  it  had  not  been  hanging  two  days 
when  a  fashionable  man  and  a  handsome  woman  secured  Mrs. 
Gordon's  best  bed-room  and  parlour  for  twenty-five  shillings  a 
week.  They  stayed  a  month,  then  walked  out  one  morning 
vdthout  notice,  and  several  pounds  in  Mrs.  Gordon's  debt  for 
rent  and  breakfast,  tea,  and  other  necessaries  supplied.  How 
they  had  removed  their  luggage  undetected  Mrs.  Gordon  never 
knew ;  but  she  strongly  suspected  that  they  had  conveyed  it  out 
overnight  through  the  parlour  window. 

"  But  then  one  ought  to  have  heard  it  coming  down-stairs, 
ma'am,"  said  Jane. 

"  Oh !  if  everthing  were  as  it  ought  to  be,"  replied  Mrs. 
Gordon,  with  some  asperity,  "  I  should  not  be  letting  furnished 
lodgings." 

Her  next  venture,  an  old  bachelor,  was  more  fortunate.  Mr. 
Mathews  paid  punctually,  but,  alas  !  he  gave  a  world  of  trouble. 
He  was  the  most  exacting,  groaning  and  grumbling  of  lodgers. 
He  scolded  Jane  and  Mrs.  Gordon  herself.  At  length  the  same 
house  could  no  longer  hold  them  both  ;  and  they  parted  by  mu- 
tual consent,  and  to  their  mutual  satisfaction. 

"If  I  were  to  beg  my  bread,  I  should  not  regret  Mr. 
Mathews,"  said  Mrs.  Gordon,  as  the  door  closed  on  her  depart- 
ing lodger. 

He  went,  and  he  was  the  last  of  his  race  that  darkened  the 
threshold  of  Rosemary  Cottage.  Again  Mrs.  Gordon  lived  upon 
hope,  and  again,  when  hope  grew  faint  and  weak,  she  wrote  to 
Mr.  Gervoise.  His  answer  was  prompt  and  short.  Mrs.  Gor- 
don had  better  give  up  the  cottage,  sell  part  of  the  furniture,  take 
a  cheap  second  floor,  and  apprentice  Beatrice  to  some  useful  and 
genteel  trade.  This  advice  he  strengthened  by  twenty-five 
pounds.  But  Mrs.  Gordon  had  conceived  a  sudden  affection  for 
the  cottage  she  had  once  hated.    She  felt  very  loth  to  part  with 


BEATRICE.  15 

the  furniture  she  had  been  so  anxious  to  sell — ^besides,  to  *pren- 
tice  Beatrice  !  This  was  worse  than  having  a  bill  up  in  the  par- 
lour window !  Mrs.  Goi;.don  resolved  never  to  submit  to  such 
degradation ;  but  as  people  must  live,  be  they  ever  so  genteel, 
the  poor  lady,  rendered  energetic  by  necessity,  tried  teaching  and 
fancy  work.  With  time  she  got  one  music  lesson,  and  some 
orders  for  crochet,  and  again  she  struggled  on. 

Jane  had  to  be  dismissed,  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  now  it 
was  that  Beatrice  redeemed  her  promise  of  working  for  her 
mother.  Beatrice  became  a  first-rate  housemaid,  and  no  mean 
cook.  She  bent  all  her  energy  and  her  intellect,  and  with  both  she 
was  amply  provided,  in  mastering  the  elements  of  domestic  lore. 
Beatrice's  bargains  were  ever  a  wonder  to  her  mother ;  how  she 
cheapened  fish  and  vegetables,  and  got  round  the  butcher,  was 
more  than  that  poor  lady  could  understand.  But  Beatrice 
did  it,  and  moreover  Beatrice  could  keep  a  house  clean,  and 
make  a  pudding,  and — rare  art ! — cook  a  mutton-chop,  and  boil 
potatoes.  But  these  useful  accomplishments  brought  in  no  mon- 
ey ;  and  as  the  music  lesson  went  abroad,  and  the  house  that 
gave  the  crochet-work  withdrew  its  orders,  Mrs.  Gordon  looked 
out  for  a  few  little  trinkets,  and  found  her  way  to  the  pawn- 
broker's. She  once  thought  of  writing  to  Mr.  Gervoise,  but  she 
remembered  that  he  had  advised  her  to  'prentice  Beatrice,  and 
she  did  not  do  it. 

Mr.  Gordon  had  been  dead  a  year  or  more.  Winter  was 
nearly  over,  but  the  bleak  wind  still  blew  drearily  round  the  cot- 
tage at  night,  and  reminded  Mrs.  Gordon  of  the  fatal  evening 
when  her  husband  went  up  to  his  room  for  the  last  time.  Oh ! 
how  dreadful  and  weary  had  been  that  year  !  How  bitter  and 
dark  looked  the  future  !  Debts  small  but  numerous  seemed  to 
enclose  the  poor  widow  in  a  net  of  iron.  She  would  willingly 
have  given  up  the  cottage  now ;  but  how  could  she,  when  she 
owed  half  a  year's  rent?  She  would  gladly  have  parted  with 
the  furniture,  but  would  not  that  have  been  alarming  the  land- 
lord? Removing  to  a  cheaper  neighborhood  was  out  of  the 
question,  for  similar  reasons  ;  a  host  of  small  and  uneasy  trades- 
men watched  all  Mrs.  Gordon's  movements,  and  she  was  too 
proud  and  too  honest  for  surreptitious  fiight. 

"  I  knew  this  cottage  would  be  the  death  of  me,"  she  said 
one  afternoon  to  Beatrice.  "  I  told  your  poor  father  so,  but  he 
would  not  believe  me.  It  was  his  death,  and  now  it  will  be 
mine." 

Mrs.  Gordon  was  lying  on  the  sofa,  and  Beatrice,  sitting  on 


16  BEATEICB. 

a  hassock  on  the  hearth,  was  watching  a  saucepanful  of  potatoes 
boiling  on  the  parlour  fire.  They  were  too  poor  to  afford  coals 
in  the  kitchen,  and,  as  visitors  were  unknown  at  Rosemary  Cot- 
tage, they  stood  in  no  fear  of  the  world  and  its  proprieties. 

Beatrice  had  too  often  heard  her  mother  speak  of  the  cottage 
as  the  cause  of  her  decease,  to  be  alarmed  at  the  declaration,  but 
she  knew  why  Mrs.  Gordon  was  so  low-spirited,  and  her  smooth 
brow  took  lines  of  premature  care. 

"  If  I  could  see  any  issue  to  this  misery,"  resumed  Mrs. 
Gordon.  "But  there  is  none.  Debts,  horrid  debts,  people 
watching  and  dunning  you !  Oh !  dear,  I  wish  we  were  both 
dead,  Beatrice  I"  » 

Beatrice's  little  lips  began  to  quiver,  but  her  potatoes  were 
boiling  fast,  so  she  checked  the  coming  tears,  and  watched  for 
the  first  crack  in  their  brown  skins. 

"  If  even — "  began  Mrs.  Gordon.  A  loud  double  knock  at 
the  cottage  door  interrupted  her.  "  Take  up  the  potatoes,"  she 
cried  in  terror  ;  "  put  them  away,  child." 

"  Where?"  asked  Beatrice,  with  the  saucepan  in  her  hand. 

"Anywhere,  child.     Be  quick  !  " 

Beatrice  looked  around  her.  The  chintz  sofa  on  which  her 
mother  was  lying  had  a  deep  valance  to  it.  Beatrice  hastily 
thrust  the  saucepan  behind  this  providential  screen,  and  rubbing 
her  poor  little  soiled  hands  along  her  rusty  black  frock,  she  went 
and  opened  the  door.  Mr.  Gervoise  stood  on  the  threshold, 
grand,  courteous,  benevolent,  and  smiling — ^his  very  glasses  had 
kindness  in  them. 

"  How  do  you  do,  my  love?  and  how  is  dear  mamma?"  he 
asked,  patting  Beatrice's  brown  head.     "  Not  unwell,  I  hope?  " 

As  Beatrice  did  not  answer,  Mr.  Gervoise's  anxiety  was  not 
relieved  until  he  entered  the  parlour,  where  he  found  Mrs.  Gor- 
don slowly  rising  from  the  sofa  to  receive  him. 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Gordon,"  he  said,  tenderly,  "  how  naughty 
you  have  been !  I  have  been  most  anxious  about  you.  Why 
did  you  not  write  ?  " 

Mrs.  Gordon  shook  her  head.  She  had  not  written  because 
she  had  nothing  to  say. 

Mr.  Gervoise  sat  down  on  the  sofa  near  her,  and  bending 
confidentially  forwards,  looked  full  in  Mrs.  Gordon's  face. 

"  How  have  you  been  getting  on  ? "  he  asked,  taking  her 
hand,  and  patting  it  affectionately.  "  Come,  tell  me  all  about  it. 
I  can  see  you  have  been  fretting." 


BEATEICE.  lY 

"  I  have  had  my  trials,"  replied  Mrs.  Gordon,  a  little  coldly, 
"  and  I  have  borne  with  them." 

"  With  that  fortitude  which  I  witnessed  a  year  ago  !  "  sighed 
Mr.  Gervoise.  "But  we  will  not  renew  the  painful  subject.  I 
am  so  glad,  my  dear  Mrs.  Gordon,  you  have  not  given  up  the 
cottage,  though  I  believe  I  advised  you  to  do  so.  But  it  would 
have  been  a  pity,"  and  Mr.  Gervoise  looked  around  him  with 
benevolent  admiration. 

This  concession  to  her  superior  judgment  softened  Mrs.  Gor- 
don considerably.  Her  heart  was  one  that  readily  opened  to  the 
least  touch  of  kindness.  With  a  sigh,  she  entered  on  the  long 
story  of  her  troubles  and  trials,  of  which  that  cottage  was  the 
first  cause. 

"  Ah  !  to  be  sure,  just  so  ! "  soothingly  remarked  Mr.  Ger- 
voise every  now  and  then.  "  As  you  very  justly  say,  it  is  a  great 
drawback  to  live  so  much  out  of  the  world.  I  suppose  you  see 
very  few  people?" 

"  I  gave  up  the  world  on  coming  here  ;  the  Martins  have  left 
the  neighbourhood.  I  see  no  one  but  that  child,  who  is  an  angel, 
Mr.  Gervoise  ! "  f 

Poor  little  Beatrice  !  she  did  not  look  much  of  an  angel,  in 
her  worn-out  frock,  and  with  her  unkempt  locks  hanging  about 
her  little  soiled  face,  on  which  sat  a  sulky  frown  ;  but  her  guardian 
smiled  kindly  at  her,  whilst  he  said  to  her  mother : 

"  It  is  most  injurious  to  the  human  mind  to  live  thus  in  soli- 
tude ;  but,  of  course,  you  see  the  papers?" 

"  Never.  We  gave  up  the  Times  when  my  husband  died, 
and  I  do  not  know  if  I  have  opened  a  newspaper  since." 

"  Mrs.  Gordon,"  cried  Mr.  Gervoise,  struck  with  a  sudden 
brilliant  thought,  "  why  do  not  you  advertise  for  a  boarder?  " 

"  You  forget  the  risk,  Mr.  Gervoise." 

"  Oh  !  but  a  substantial  boarder  is  no  risk." 

"  Mr.  Mathews  was  not  a  boarder,"  sighed  Mrs.  Gordon ; 
"  but  what  I  endured  with  that  man " 

*'  Do  not  mention  it,"  interrupted  Mr.  Gervoise  ;  "  but  I  do 
not  mean  anything  like  Mr.  Mathews,  of  course  not." 

"  I  could  not,"  said  Mrs.  Gordon.  "  I  would  beg  my  bread 
first!" 

"  Out  of  the  question.  No,  my  meaning  is  this :  will  you 
take  a  boarder  from  me — a  widower  and  his  son,  a  lad  of  four- 
teen?" 

"  You  do  not  mean — "  said  Mrs.  Gordon,  much  fluttered. 


18  BEATEICE. 

"  Yes,  I  do,  Mrs.  Gordon.  I  am  coming  to  board  with  you 
— with  my  son  Gilbert.     No  objections — ^it  is  agreed  upon." 

Mrs.  Gordon  faltered  her  acknowledgments,  and  Mr.  Ger- 
voise  slipped  a  folded  paper  in  her  hand. 

"  I  know  you  will  be  anxious  to  make  us  comfortable,"  he 
whispered ;  "  we  can  settle  afterwards." 

Mrs.  Gordon  was  overwhelmed  with  gratitude,  but  with  the 
true  instinct  of  modest  benevolence,  Mr.  Gervoise  rose  hastily 
and  took  a  precipitate  leave. 

"  Don't  mention  it — don't  mention  it ! "  he  said  hurriedly,  as 
she  followed  him  to  the  door,  and,  with  less  ceremony  than  usual, 
he  cut  short  his  leave-taking. 

As  soon  as  she  came  back  to  the  parlour,  Mrs.  Gordon  opened 
the  paper.  She  found  that  it  contained  a  short  list  of  instructions 
and  necessaries,  and,  what  she  could  not  help  thinking  more  to 
the  purpose,  a  ten-pound  note. 

"  If  ever  there  was  an  angel  upon  earth  !"  said  Mrs v  Gordon, 
raising  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes. 

"I  detest  Mr.  Gervoise!"  interrupted  Beatrice,  clenching 
her  tiny  hands,  and  her  black  eyes  flashing. 

"  You  detest  your  guardian  !  Why,  child,  what  has  he  ever 
done  to  you?"  asked  Mrs.  Gordon,  even  more  surprised  than  in- 
dignant. 

Now,  it  was  very  true  that  Mr.  Gervoise  had  never  been 
guilty  of  the  least  unkindness  towards  his  ward.  Beatrice  could 
not  tax  him  with  a  wrong  look  or  a  wrong  word,  yet  she  hated, 
and -had  always  hated,  Mr.  Gervoise. 

"I  ask  why  you  dislike  your  guardian?"  imperatively  in- 
quired Mrs.  Gordon. 

"  Because  he  wears  glasses,"  impetuously  replied  Beatrice, 
unable  to  get  hold  of  a  better  reason ;  and  bursting  into  tears, 
she  drew  the  saucepan  from  its  hiding-place,  recklessly  dragging 
it  along  the  carpet. 

*'  How  dare  you,  miss  !"  indignantly  inquired  Mrs.  Gordon. 
"  Leave  the  room,  and  take  down  that  saucepan  to  the  kitchen, 
directly." 

Beatrice  checked  her  tears  and  obeyed.  The  door  closed 
upon  her,  and  Mrs.  Gordon  sighed  as  she  looked  at  the  carpet. 

"  Oh  !  dear,  what  a  worry  children  will  be  !  "  she  murmured, 
sinking  down  on  the  sofa* 


CHAPTER  IV. 

The  very  next  morning,  so  great  and  laudable  was  his  desire 
to  benefit  Mrs.  Gordon  by  the  presence  of  a  substantial  boarder  in 
her  house,  Mr.  Gervoise  made  his  appearance  at  Rosemary  Cot- 
tage. He  came  accompanied  by  a  lad  of  fourteen,  whom  he  was 
very  anxious  to  introduce  at  once  to  Beatrice  ;  but  Beatrice  was 
down-stairs  with  a  charwoman,  whom  Mrs.  Gordon  had  called 
in  to  give  the  cottage  a  Spring  cleaning ;  and  as  she  was  not  a 
very  docile  child,  neither  her  mother's  orders  nor  her  entreaties 
could  make  Beatrice  leave  that  refuge.  Again  she  said  that  she 
detested  Mr.  Gervoise,  and  in  this  declaration  she  was  kind 
enough  to  include  his  son  Gilbert. 

Mrs.  Gordon  left  her  in  great  indignation,  and  went  back  to 
Mr.  Gervoise,  to  whom  she  made  the  best  apology  she  could ; 
*'  but  a  more  obstinate  child  does  not  exist,"  she  said ;  "  she  is 
just  like  her  poor  father." 

"  If  the  mountain  will  not  go  to  Mahomet,  Mahomet  must  go 
to  the  mountain,"  gaily  replied  Mr.  Gervoise.  "  Gilbert,  go 
down  to  the  kitchen  and  get  acquainted  with  that  obstinate  young 
damsel.  This  is  my  French  son,"  he  added,  nodding  to  Mrs. 
Gordon,  who  nodded  in  return. 

Mr.  Gervoise  was  a  Frenchman,  a  native  of  that  cool  green 
Normandy  which  faces  England,  which  conquered  it  eight  hun- 
dred years  ago,  was  long  linked  with  it,  and  has  some  features 
in  common  with  it  still.  Soon  after  his  first  wife's  death,  Mr. 
Gervoise  left  France  and  settled  in  Kent.  He  wanted,  he  said, 
to  become  an  Englishman.  England  and  her  domestic  life  had 
always  fascinated  him.  These  was  nothing  like  it  in  France. 
Marriage  was  not  understood  in  that  benighted  country.  It  was 
a  farce,  a  drama,  a  tragedy — never  marriage  ! 

Mr.  Gervoise  had  a  son  by  his  French  wife,  but  he  longed  to 
mingle  his  blood  with  that  of  England.  He  married  a  blooming 
Miss  Emilia  Thorne,  took  the  oath  of  allegiance,  had  another  son 


20  BEATEICE. 

by  her,  and  became  a  widower  a  year  before  his  friend  Mr. 
Gordon  died. 

This  was  how  Mr.  Gervoise  had  a  French  and  an  English 
son.  The  latter  was  now  in  France,  in  order  to  acquire  the 
language  of  the  country,  and  the  former  had  been  in  England 
some  time  for  the  same  excellent  purpose. 

Beatrice  was  picking  fruit  for  a  pudding  in  the  kitchen.  Her 
back  was  turned  to  the  door,  and  as  she  was  intent  on  her  task, 
she  neither  saw  nor  heard  Gilbert  Gervoise  until  he  stood  close 
behind  her.  She  thought  at  first  it  was  Mrs.  Greene,  who  had 
gone  up-stairs,  but  when  he  coughed  gently,  she  turned  round 
quickly,  and  for  a  while  remained  mute. 

txilbert  Gervoise  was  fair,  like  his  father,  and  like  him,  very 
handsome.  He  had  blue  eyes,  both  bright  and  pensive,  a  clear 
complexion,  flowing  fair  hair,  and  a  winning  smile.  Beatrice 
was  literally  dazzled  with  his  beauty,  and  she  was  fascinated  too 
by  the  genial  goodness  of  his  countenance.  Her  resolve  to  hate 
Mr.  Gervoise*s  son  melted  away  from  her— she  did  not  know 
why.  She  struggled,  however,  against  the  gentle  feeling,  and 
frowning,  asked  the  intruder  what  he  wanted. 

"  To  help  you,"  he  promptly  replied. 

"  Can  you  make  a  pudding?"  she  ironically  inquired. 

Gilbert  shook  his  head,  and  said  "  No." 

"  Well,  then,  you  are  of  no  use." 

"  Oh  !  I  can  do  what  you  are  doing." 

He  began  picking  the  fruit  with  a  dexterity  which  awakened 
the  two  opposite  feelings  of  jealousy  and  admiration  in  Beatrice's 
heart ;  but  admiration  won  the  day,  and  on  its  steps  followed 
liking  sudden  and  true.  It  was  despotic  liking  indeed,  with  "  do 
this,"  and  ^'  do  that,"  but  Gilbert  seemed  amused  and  proved 
obedient.     When  the  fruit  was  picked,  he  asked, 

"  Have  you  got  a  garden?" 

"  Yes  ;  come  up,  I  will  show  it  you." 

The  garden  was  a  square  patch,  with  more  weeds  than  flowers 
in  it,  and  Gilbert  said  so. 

"  We  can't  afford  flowers,"  replied  Beatrice,  gravely ;  "  we 
are  very  poor,  you  know.  Oh !  how  I  wish  I  could  earn 
money,"  she  added  vehemently ;  "  money  for  poor  mamma,  you 
know." 

Gilbert  looked  thoughtful,  then  said  confidentially : 

"  I  have  a  napoleon — ^that  would  not  do,  would  it  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  no  ;  besides,  I  would  not  take  it ;  but  still  I  wish  I 
could  earn  money." 


BEATEICE.  21 

''  Money ! "  ejaculated  Mr.  Gervoise,  who  had  stolen  upon 
them  unseen,  and  had  been  listening ;  "  you  must  not  be  think- 
ing so  much  about  money." 

Beatrice  gave  him  a  shy,  displeased  look,  but  did  not  reply. 
Mr.  Gervoise  took  a  sovereign  out  of  his  pocket  and  showed  it 
to  her. 

"  Do  you  suppose,"  he  asked,  "  that  this  has  any  particular 
value  in  itself?  Not  in  the  least,  child.  It  has  a  conventional 
value,  and  is  used  as  a  means  of  exchange  ;  in  reality,  my  dear, 
it  is  trash." 

Having  uttered  this  philosophical  sentiment,  Mr.  Gervoise 
put  the  sovereign  back  in  his  pocket,  and  walked  into  the  back 
parlour,  where  he  had  left  Mrs.  Gordon  sitting.  • 

"  My  dear  madam,"  he  said,  in  his  grand  courteous  way — 
and  Mr.  Gervoise  certainly  had  fine  manners — "  our  dear  chil- 
dren are  already  devoted  to  one  another.  See  how  Gilbert  has 
passed  his  arm  round  Beatrice's  waist,  and  how  she  looks  up  at 
him,  and  how  he  looks  down  at  her.  It  is  quite  affecting.  I 
confess  to  you  that  I  indulge  in  very  delightful  anticipations." 

Now  though  Mr.  Gervoise  was  not  a  rich  man,  he  was  com- 
fortable, and  Gilbert  would  certainly  be  an  excellent  match  for 
Beatrice.  Mrs.  Gordon's  teairs  nearly  flowed  at  the  father's  sug- 
gestion. 

"  I  see  we  understand  one  another,"  affectionately  said  Mr. 
Gervoise ;  "  we  will  leave  it  to  time,  my  dear  lady — we  will 
leave  it  to  time." 

And  so  will  we  leave  this  story  to  time,  or  at  least  to  that 
portion  of  it  which  is  comprised  within  one  week.  Rosemary 
Cottage  was  another  place  now.  Comfort,  good  living — Mr. 
Gervoise  paid  liberally,  and  expected  what  he  called  a  moderate 
and  nutritious  table — two  servants,  really  money,  and  new  clothes 
had  wrought  a  great  change  in  Mrs.  Gordon's  feelings  and  ap- 
pearance. She  looked  happy,  and  certainly  was  lively.  Beatrice, 
too,  was  altered.  She  had  given  up  her  domestic  avocations, 
and  was  now  a  gaily-attired  little  lady,  who  romped  about  the 
Kensington  lanes  with  Gilbert — ah !  what  a  green  world  they 
were  then ! — or  played  at  home  with  him  in  the  back  parlour, 
while  Mr.  Gervoise  and  Mrs.  Gordon,  who  had  a  great  deal  of 
business  in  the  way  of  accounts,  sat  talking  it  over  in  the  front 
room. 

In  that  front  room  Mrs.  Gordon  was  left  alone  one  evening, 
exactly  a  week  after  Mr.  Gervoise  had  become  her  boarder.  He 
was  delightful  during  dinner  time,  but  no  sooner  was  the  meal 


22  BEATKICE. 

over  than  he  rose,  evidently  to  go  out.  Mrs.  Gordon  looked 
surprised.  Mr.  Gervoise  explained,  he  had  a  friend  in  Bays- 
water  with  whom  he  must  spend  part  of  the  evening — a  tiresome 
business  interview.  The  friend's  wife  had  deserted  him,  and 
taken  three  out  of  the  five  children. 

"  How  dreadful ! "  said  Mrs.  Gordon. 

"  Human  nature,"  indulgently  said  Mr.  Gervoise. 

"  But  how  kind  of  you  to  go  out  on  this  inclement  night," 
said  Mrs.  Gordon. 

It  was  a  very  severe  night  indeed,  keen  and  bitter. 

"  My  dear  Madam,  we  must  assist  one  another  in  this  world. 
Our  life  is  but  short,  let  us  do  as  much  good  as  Ave  can." 

"  What  a  man ! "  mentally  ejaculated  Mrs.  Gordon,  as  the 
door  closed  on  her  boarder.  But  her  opinion  of  Mr.  Gervoise's 
benevolence  naturally  increased  when  the  cook  came  in  with  the 
tidings  that  she  had  seen  him  down  in  Kensington  entering  a  City 
omnibus.  At  first  Mrs.  Gordon  was  puzzled,  for  Kensington 
and  Bayswater  are  rather  apart,  and  the  city  lies  at  a  tolerabliB 
distance  from  either ;  *  then  she  grew  doubtful,  though  cook 
was  obstinate.  Finally,  she  concluded  that  Mr.  Gervoise  had 
met  a  messenger  at  the  door,  with  tidings  that  induced  him  to 
alter  his  direction,  and  so  the  good  man  had  actually  gone  off  to 
the  City  in  this  trying  weather. 

Mr.  Gervoise  went  no  farther  than  Holborn.  There  he 
alighted,  and  made  his  way  to  Great  Ormond  Street.  *'  Houses 
have  no  great  value  here,"  thought  Mr.  Gervoise,  examining 
keenly  this  street,  which,  after  being  the  resort  of  the  polite  and 
the  courtly,  has  now  rather  fallen  down  in  the  world.  "And 
this  is  the  house,  is  it?"  He  stopped  before  one  of  the  oldest 
houses,  and,  looking  at  it  closely,  concluded  that  it  was  not  one 
of  the  best.  A  gas  lamp  showed  him  that  it  was  somewhat  out 
of  repair,  also  that  it  had  a  dreary  uninhabited  look.  "  No  cur- 
tains," thought  Mr.  Gervoise,  glancing  at  the  closed  shutters, 
and,  instead  of  knocking,  he  gently  touched  the  area  bell.  A 
rough-looking  man-servant  came  out  of  the  kitchen  into  the  area 
with  a  light,  looked  up,  nodded  at  Mr.  Gervoise,  then  disap- 
peared. In  a  few  moments  the  door  opened,  and  the  same  rough- 
looking  man  admitted  the  visitor. 

The  hall  of  this  house  was  not  the  narrow  passage  dignified 
with  the  name  of  the  modern  London  house.  It  was  spacious, 
circular,  and  lofty.  Mr.  Gervoise  looked  around  him  with  an 
inquiring  and  searching  glance. 

"  So  this  is  the  town  house,"  he  said. 


BEATEICE.  23 

The  servant  nodded. 

"  It  smells  mouldy,  John." 

"  It  is  mouldy,"  said  John. 

"Where  is  Mrs.  Scot?" 

"  Up-stairs  with  master." 

"Can  I  go  up?" 

"  Ah,  yes,  you  can  go  up,"  was  John's  very  unceremonious 
reply. 

And  up  a  broad  and  gloomy  staircase  Mr.  Gervoise  went. 
The  house,  which  looked  dreary  without,  was  dull,  dark,  and 
silent  within.  It  was  a  very  dismal  house,  to  say  the  least  of  it. 
A  door  on  the  first  floor  landing  stood  open  ;  Mr.  Gervoise  looked 
in  cautiously.  A  lamp  was  burning  in  a  wide,  cold-looking 
room,  with  furniture  two  hundred  years  old  and  more,  but  which 
had  nothing  save  its  antiquity  to  recommend  it.  A  door  facing 
him  stood  ajar,  and  thence  proceeded  low  murmuring  sounds  of 
talking.  Mr.  Gervoise  entered ,  crossed  the  uncarpeted  floor  with  a 
light  footstep,  and  entered  the  second  room  without  knocking.  It 
was  as  dreary-looking  as  the  first,  but  it  had  a  fire,  and  it  was 
tenanted ;  a  pale  old  man  sat  bending  over  the  grate,  and  behind 
his  arm-chair  stood  a  woman  past  fifty,  and  of  stern  and  forbid- 
ding aspect.  She  slowly  turned  round  as  Mr.  Gervoise  entered, 
and  fixed  upon  him  a  large  and  subtle  black  eye. 

"Who's  that?"  inquired  the  old  man,  looking  up  sharply; 
"is  it  John?" 

"  No,  it  is  not  John,"  mildly  replied  Mr.  Gervoise. 

"  Ah  !  Mr.  Gervoise,  I  am  glad  to  see  you.  It  is  very  kind 
of  you  to  come  to  me."  * 

"  Do  not  mention  it  ;*thank  you,  Mrs.  Scot,"  and  Mr.  Ger- 
voise took  the  chair  which  Mrs.  Scot  handed  him,  after  looking 
at  her  master. 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Scot,  you  can  go.  Will  you  have  a  glass  of 
wine,  Mr.  Gervoise  ?  " 

"  Thanks,  I  have  but  just  dined." 

The  old  man  sighed  ;  Mrs.  Scot  closed  the  door,  and  a  long 
silence  followed. 

"  Mr.  Carnoosie "  began  Mr.  Gervoise. 

"  Yes,  it  is  Mr.  Carnoosie  now,"  said  the  old  man ;  "  but 
there  has  been  a  title  in  the  family.  I  used  to  think  of  getting  it 
revived,  but  that  is  over  now." 

"  Very  sad  !  "  murmured  Mr.  Gervoise. 

"  Two  such  boys  ! — two  such  fine  boys  !  " 

"  Very  sad ! "  said  Mr.  Gervoise  again,  and  another  long 
sUence  followed. 


24:  BEATRICE. 

"  I  suppose  you  know  what  I  came  to  town  for?  "  resumed 
Mr.  Carnoosie. 

"  On  business,  I  presume." 

'.'  Just  so — undertaker's  business.    I  came  to  make  my  will." 

"  Loads  of  time  for  that,"  cheerfully  said  Mr.  Gervoise, 
"  loads  of  time." 

*'  There  is  time,  but  no  more  than  time." 

"  We  shall  never  agree  on  that  subject,"  said  Mr.  Gervoise, 
still  brisk  and  cheerful ;  "  never,  my  dear  sir." 

Mr.  Carnoosie  looked  at  him  fixedly.  This  old  man  had  a 
pale  and  feeble  face,  but  it  was  also  a  face  in  which  mistrust  was 
written — the  mistrust  of  the  weak. 

"Mr.  Gervoise,"  he  said  a  little  peevishly,  "I  wish  you 
would  not  speak  so — you  don't  believe  a  word  of  it."  Af 

Mr.  Gervoise  laughed  heartily. 

"  Very  good  !  "  he  said  ;  "  very  good  !  " 

"  Don't,"  said  the  old  man  with  a  start,  "  don't  laugh,  for 
mercy's  sake !  " 

At  once  Mr.  Gervoise  was  mute,  and  there  followed  another 
long  pause. 

"  What  dreary  rooms!"  thought  Mr.  Gervoise,  looking 
round  him  ;  "  and  a  poor  house,  too — not  one  good  picture  in  it. 
I  suppose  that  japanned  cabinet  is  worth  something,  though  ;  ono 
could  get  it  cleaned  and  varnished." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Carnoosie,  "I  came  to  town  to  make  my 
will,  and  as  you  have  agreed  to  be  trustee " 

"  Excuse  me  if  I  interrupt  you,"  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  "  but 
you  know  on  what  terms  I  have  agreed  to  be  trustee.  No  legacy, 
no  remembrance — ^nothing,  in  short."    « 

"  I  have  a  diamond  ring " 

"  If  it  were  the  Kooh-i-noor  I  would  not  accept  of  it." 

''  Well,  as  you  please.  But,  as  I  said,  you  have  agreed  to 
be  trustee,  and  as  I  am  afraid  there  is  a  minor  in  this  case " 

"  A  minor  ! "  interrupted  Mr.  Gervoise,  "  Mr,  Gordon  is  not 
a  minor." 

"  I  can't  make  up  my  mind  to  leave  it  to  him,'*  said  Mr. 
Carnoosie,  without  looking  at  Mr.  Gervoise  ;  "  I  never  liked  the 
man,  and  he  has  turned  papist." 

"  A  vile  calumny,  my  dear  sir !  He  is  incapable,  utterly  in- 
capable of  abjuring  the  religion  of  his  ancestors." 

"  Well,  then,  he  is  a  Presbyterian,  and  a  predestinarian." 

*'  He  is  a  Scotch  Episcopalian,"  sententiously  said  Mr. 
Gervoise. 


BEATEIOE.  25 

"  He  may  be  what  lie  likes,"  crossly  replied  Mr.  Carnoosie, 
"  I  never  liked  him,  and  he  shall  not  have  old  Carnoosie." 

"  Then  I  suppose  Mr.  Mortimer " 

"  Mortimer !  the  radical !  the  penny-a-liner ! — ^no  ! " 

"  Then  the  estate  goes  to  charities.  A  noble  deed — a  noble 
deed." 

"  Damn  the  charities  ! "  angrily  said  Mr.  Carnoosie  ;  "  do 
you  think  I  am  going  to  have  a  set  of  beggars  down  at  Carnoosie  ?  " 

"  Well,  it  would  be  a  pity." 

"  I'll  burn  the  house  first." 

''  No  need  to  do  that,  eh?     No  need." 

"  No,  sir,  no  need  whilst  a  child  of  Poor  Josephs  is  alive,  as 
I  learned  the  other  day,  and  that  has  brought  me  down." 

Mr.  Gervoise  looked  hard  at  the  fire. 

"  The  boy  lives  with  his  mother  down  in  Plough  Lane,  Ken- 
sington.    You  know  Kensington  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  there,"  quietly  replied  Mr.  Gervoise. 

"Well,  what  I  want  from  you  is  this,  Mr.  Gervoise.  I 
want  you  to  see  the  widow  and  the  child,  and  to  give  me  some 
account  of  both — ^you  understand  ?  " 

"  Quite  well.  But  if  you  were  to  see  them  yourself,  my  dear 
sir." 

"  I  will  not ! — I  will  not ! "  interrupted  Mr.  Carnoosie,  in  a 
wailing  tone.  "  I  will  not  see  and  have  them  speculating  on  the 
old  man's  death.  No,"  he  added,  in  an  altered  voice,  "  you  must 
do  that  for  me — please  do  it ;  I  ask  for  no  more." 

"  My  dear  sir,  I  will  do  what  you  please.  Plough  Lane, 
you  said?" 

"  Yes ;  here  is  a  letter  the  widow  wrote  to  my  solicitor." 

"  He  handed  him  a  shabby-looking  letter,  which  Mr.  Gervoise 
surveyed  with  every  appearance  of  profound  interest,  then  care- 
fully put  away  in  an  elegant  morocco  pocket-book. 

"  I  shall  see  about  it  to-morrow  early,"  he  said,  "  and  bring 
you  my  account  to-morrow  afternoon.     Will  that  do  ?" 

"  Yes,  that  will  do,  thank  you.  You  are  sure  you  will  not 
take  a  glass  of  wine?" 

"  Quite  sure,"  replied  Mr.  Gervoise,  rising  and  taking  the 
hint  to  go*.  "  Good  night,  Mr.  Carnoosie.  Take  care  of  your- 
self, my  dear  sir,  and  don't  stay  too  long  in  this  old  house ;  it 
would  shorten  your  days." 

"  It  matters  little,  Mr.  Gervoise — very  little.     After  all,  I 
have  outlived  two  such  boys  !  noble  boys  I " 
2 


26  BEATRICE. 

"Very  sad!"  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  sympathetically;  "good 
night.     Shall  I  send  up  Mrs.  Scot?" ^ 

"  Ay,  do,  if  you  please.     Good  night." 

Mr.  Grervoise  softly  stole  out  of  the  room,  and  had  not  the 
trouble  of  sending  up  Mrs.  Scot.  He  found  her  sitting  in  the 
outer  room,  not  so  near  the  door  as  to  be  charged  with  listening ; 
but  not  so  far  away  either  as  not  to  have  heard  part,  if  not  the 
whole,  of  the  conversation  between  himself  and  her  master.  Mr. 
Gervoise  beckoned  her  mysteriously  out  on  the  landing.  With 
little  alacrity,  Mrs.  Scot  obeyed  the  signal,  and  followed  him  to 
the  head  of  the  staircase. 

"Mrs.  Scot,"  whispered  Mr.  Gervoise,  "who  is  that  new 
heir?" 

"  He's  dead,  sir ;  it  is  the  child." 

"  A  minor — a  ward  in  chancery,  I  suppose.  Mrs.  Scot,  take 
a  friend's  advice  ;  secure  your  position — secure  your  position,  I 
say." 

"  It's  thirty  pounds  a-year,  sir ;  I  know  it  already." 

"  Thirty  pounds  a-year  for  your  long  and  faithful  services ! 
I  must  interfere,  Mrs.  Scott." 

"  Then  you'll  make  it  twenty,  sir,"  very  drily  replied  Mrs. 
Scot.     "  That's  Mr.  Carnoosie's  way."  * 

Mr.  Gervoise  raised  his  hands,  and  went  down-stairs  in  mute 
indignation,  whilst  Mrs.  Scot  went  back  to  her  master. 

"  Mrs.  Scot,"  he  said,  feebly,  "  what  did  Mr.  Gervoise  say 
to  you?" 

"  He  said  you  looked  but  poorly,  sir.  I  told  him  it  was  the 
fretting." 

"  You  call  it  fretting.  Oh !  it  is  not  that,  Mrs.  Scot.  It  is 
moaning  and  grieving  one's  very  life  away.  It  is  sleeping, 
waking,  and  living  in  sorrow." 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  that  is  what  I  call  fretting." 

Mrs.  Scot's  voice,  as  she  said  this,  was  harsh  and  cold,  and 
very  different  indeed  from  Mr.  Gervoise's  soft  and  sympathetic 
"  very  sad  ! " 

"  But  he  has  boys,"  thought  Mr.  Carnoosie  ;  "  two  boys,  and 
she  has  none  ;  a  cold,  heartless,  childless  woman ! "  * 

Such  as  she  was,  however,  he  could  not  do  without  her  pres- 
ence. There  had  been  a  time  when  that  presence  had  been 
pleasant  to  him,  for  another  motive  than  hatred  of  solitude  ;  a 
time  when  both  were  young,  and  the  stern  housekeeper  was  not 
vrithout  her  share  of  beauty.  In  those  days  Mrs.  Scot  had  had 
ambitious  dreams,  doomed  to  cruel  disappointment.    Her  master 


BEATRICE.  27 

had  proved  faithless,  and  married  a  girl  of  his  own  rank  and 
station ;  a  handsome  girl,  who  gave  him  two  sons,  and  died  in 
her  bloom.  Still  more  deeply  was  Mrs.  Scot's  revenge  to  be 
worked  out.  The  two  boys  perished  in  one  fatal  accident,  and 
their  father  never  recovered  the  blow.  Decrepit  before  his  time, 
he  wandered  about  his  deserted  mansion  a  living  sorrow.  Dis- 
ease soon  stepped  in  and  seized  him,  and  he  had  now  come  to 
London  to  make  his  will,  and  dispose  of  that  property  which  was 
not  to  go  down  to  children  of  his  blood.  Ay,  truly  Mrs.  Scot 
was  avenged ;  but  the  vengeance,  not  unwished  for,  perhaps, 
though  unsought,  cost  her  dear.  Thirty  pounds  a-year  for  youth 
and  beauty,  a  hope  and  half  a  lifetime ;  *  such  was  her  present 
value  in  the  eyes  of  that  master  who  once  had  followed  her  as 
her  shadow.  If,  as  they  sat  thus  together  in  the  dreary  room 
of  the  London  house,  he  thought  her  cold  and  heartless,  what  did 
she  think  him  ? 


CHAPTER  V. 

Curiosity  was  one  of  Mrs.  Gordon's  venial  sins.  The  next 
morning  she  could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  telling  Mr.  Ger- 
voise  that  cook  had  seen  him  down  in  Kensington.  On  principle, 
Mr.  Gervoise  never  told  his  business  to  any  one.  He  accordingly- 
put  on  a  look  of  great  surprise,  and  said  that  cook  must  have 
been  mistaken — ^he  hoped  so  at  least ;  for,  as  he  was  not  in  Ken- 
sington, he  should  really  feel  alarmed  at  having  been  seen  there —  , 
it  would  look  like  second  sight,  and  could  only  be  the  forerunner 
of  disaster  or  death.  Mrs.  Gordon  shuddered,  and  begged  he 
would  not  mention  it. 

No  more  was  said  on  the  subject,  and  after  breakfast  Mr. 
Gervoise  went  out.  This  time  he  did  not  say  where  he  was 
going,  so  that  cook  should  have  no  tales  to  tell ;  but  as  caution 
is  practical  wisdom,  Mr.  Gervoise  took  a  brisk  walk  near  Hol- 
land House,  then  slipped  down  a  silent  and  lonely  lane,  and 
finally  entered  Plough  Lane,  and  found  himself  near  a  group  of 
small,  mean  dwellings.  He  singled  out  one  which  was  rather 
meaner  than  the  rest.  It  had  a  most  untidy  garden  in  front,  and 
a  dirty  parlour  window,  in  which  hung  a  bill  of  "  Mangling 
Done,"  and  near  it  another  bill  with  "  A  Room  to  Let"  upon  it ; 
and  above  this  two  first-floor  windows  adorned  with  ragged 
curtains.  At  the  door  of  this  promising  abode  Mr.  Gervoise 
stopped  and  rang ;  a  voice  within  cried  out,  "  Never  mind,  Mrs. 
Smith,  I'll  attend  to  the  door,"  and  the  words  were  scarcely 
uttered,  when  a  fresh-coloured  and  very  pretty  young  woman 
opened  the  door,  and  stood  before  Mr.  Gervoise,  with  a  baby  in 
her  arms,  and  two  rosy  children  peeping  at  the  stranger  from  * 
behind  their  mother's  skirts.  Mr.  Gervoise  gave  the  baby  a 
keen  look,  then  he  surveyed  the  mother  from  head  to  foot ;  then 
he  said,  in  his  grand  way : 

"  Madam,  I  come  to  pay  you  some  money  which  I  owe  your 
husband." 

"  Perhaps  you'll  not  mind  walking  up-stairs,  sir,"  civilly  said 


BEATEICK  29 

the  young  woman ;  and  she  showed  him  up  a  dark  staircase  into 
one  of  the  front  rooms. 

It  was  poorly  furnished,  and  Mr.  Gervoise's  quick  eye  at 
once  caught  sight  of  a  working  man's  jacket  hanging  on  a  peg 
behind  the  door  ;  but  resolutely  turning  his  back  to  it  as  well  as 
to  the  baby's  cradle,  he  took  out  his  purse,  and  said : 

"  The  amount  is  thirty-two  shillings.  Will  you  be  kind 
enough  to  give  me  a  receipt,  madam  ? " 

"  My  husband  had  better  do  that  when  he  comes  in,"  replied 
the  young  woman. 

"  When  he  comes  in ! — do  you  mean  to  say,  madam,  that  he 
has  returned  from  Australia?" 

Every  drop  of  blood  seemed  to  forsake  the  young  woman's 
cheeks. 

"  He's  dead,  sir,"  she  faltered  at  length. 

"  Dead  !     How  long  has  he  been  dead,  pray?" 

"  Two  years,  sir." 

"  I  heard  from  him  six  months  ago,"  said  Mr.  Gervoise. 

Stupor  and  despair  appeared  in  the  poor  young  thing's  face. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  are  married  again  ?  "  cried  Mr. 
Gervoise,  suddenly  struck  with  the  fact. 

"Don't  ruin  me,  sir!"  she  entreated,  "don't!  indeed  I 
thought  he  was  dead — indeed  I  did ! " 

"  My  dear  young  creature,"  kindly  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  "  I 
have  not  the  least  wish  to  ruin  you  ;  only,  after  giving  myself  a 
world  of  trouble  to  find  you  out,  I  perceive  I  cannot  pay  this 
thirty-two  shillings  to  you." 

So  saying,  Mr.  Gervoise  put  his  purse  in  his  pocket. 

"  But  what  am  I  to  do,  sir?"  asked  the  young  woman,  look- 
ing thoroughly  bewildered  ;  "  what  am  I  to  do  ?" 

"  It  is  awkward,"  replied  Mr.  Gervoise  ;  "  the  diggings  are 
awkward.  They  take  and  swallow  men  up,  and  either  keep 
them  altogether,  or  turn  them  up  at  the  wrong  time.  It  is  very 
awkward,  and  I  am  sure  Mr.  Carnoosie,  through  whom  I  got 
your  direction,  is  too  humane  and  too  judicious  to  torment  you 
on  this  subject." 

^  "And  what  right  has  he  to  torment  me?"  cried  the  young 
woman,  flushing  up.  "  I  married  a  gentleman,  and  I  paid  dear 
for  it.  I  was  deserted  with  a  poor  baby  in  arms,  and  if  it  were 
not  for  my  present  husband,  both  my  child  and  myself  might 
have  starved.  What  did  Mr.  Carnoosie  ever  do  for  me  that  he 
should  torment  me  now  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  he  has  the  right,"  quietly  said  Mr.  Gervoise ; 


30  BEATEICE. 

"  but  I  do  not  think  he  has  the  inclination.  May  I  ask  your 
present  husband's  name?" 

"  Grant,  sir.  I  am  not  ashamed  of  it.  Thomas  Grant, 
carpenter,  and  a  better  husband  never  was.  As  fond  of  my 
children  as  if  they  were  his  own." 

"  Very  touching,  very ;  and,  after  all,  matters  may  not  be 
so'  bad,  you  know.  The  wrong  one  may  die,  and  so  on.  Shall 
I  call  again,  if  I  get  more  positive  news — for  he  may  be  dead 
now,  you  know?" 

The  young  woman  looked  scared,  then  mistrustful. 

" I  don't  want  to  know  anything,  sir,"  she  said ;  "he  left  me 
to  shift  for  myself,  and  he's  dead  according  to  all  accounts,  and 
I'll  believe  him  dead  till  I  know  him  living :  and  I  am  another 
man's  wife " 

"  Excuse  me,"  interrupted  Mr.  Gervoise,  "  you  are  no  man's 
wife,  unless  your  husband  was  dead  at  the  time  you  married  Mr. 
Grant." 

"  And  pray,  sir,  what  is  it  all  to  you,  and  what  do  you  come 
here  prying  into  my  business  for?"  asked  Mrs.  Grant,  who 
seemed  to  have  a  warm  temper. 

"  I  came,  Mrs.  Grant,  to  pay  you  certain  moneys  which  I 
owe  to  your  husband,  and  if  you  will  kindly  give  me  proof  of  his 
death,  I  will  do  so  this  instant.  I  mean,"  continued  Mr.  Ger- 
voise, taking  out  his  purse  again,  "  genuine  proof,  not  hearsay 
proof.  A  burial  certificate  for  instance.  Whether  he  died  be- 
fore or  after  your  second  marriage  is  nothing  to  me,  Mrs. 
Grant." 

"  I  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  his  debts,"  bitterly  said  the 
young  woman.  "  He  married  me,  he  forsook  me.  I  have  done 
without  his  money  whilst  he  was  alive,  and  I  will  do  without  it 
now  that  he  is  dead." 

"  If  he  is  dead,"  suggested  Mr.  Gervoise,  pocketing  his  purse 
once  more. 

"  He  must  be  dead,  and  he  is  dead ! "  angrily  said  the  young 
woman. 

Her  tone  and  her  looks  were  both  getting  harsh  and  inhospi- 
table. Mr.  Gervoise  took  the  hint,  and  thought  it  more  prudent 
to  go. 

"  I  have  the  honour  to  wish  you  a  good  morning,  madam," 
he  said,  in  his  grand  way ;  and  opening  the  door,  he  walked 
down-stairs  unaccompanied,  and  opened  the  street  door  for 
himself.  As  he  closed  it,  he  looked  shrewdly  at  the  bill  in  the 
window. 


BEATEICE.  31 

"  A  room  to  let,"  he  tliought ;  "  there  will  soon  be  two  rooms 
to  let,  or  I  am  greatly  mistaken." 

Mr.  Gervoise  walked  down  to  the  end  of  Plough  Lane,  hailed 
an  empty  cab  that  was  passing,  and  was  driven  to  the  old  house 
in  Great  Ormond  Street.  This  time  it  was  Mrs.  Scot  who  ad- 
mitted him. 

"Well,  Mrs.  Scot,  and  how  are  we  to-day?"  asked  Mr. 
Gervoise. 

"  Poorly,  sir." 

"And  low?" 

"  Oh  !  yes,  sir,  we  are  always  low." 

Mrs.  Scot  spoke  briefly.  She  was  evidently  not  inclined  for 
conversation,  and  Mr.  Gervoise  prudently  avoided  pressing  her. 
Softly  he  went  up  the  staircase,  and  very  softly  he  entered  Mr. 
Camoosie's  room.  The  old  man  sat  bending  over  the  fire,  with 
his  hands  on  his  knees,  in  the  same  attitude  as  on  the  preceding 
evening ;  but  when  he  looked  up,  Mr.  Gervoise  could  see  that 
Mr.  Camoosie's  mood  was  no  longer  the  same.  He  looked  irri- 
table and  sharp. 

"  Glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Gervoise,"  he  said,  but  no  token  of 
gladness  appeared  on  his  pale  face. 

"  And  I  am  glad  to  see  you  looking  so  well,"  replied  Mr. 
Gervoise,  taking  a  chair,  and  drawing  near  him. 

"  Well !  I  am  looking  well !  Well  with  the  grief  that  is  in 
me!" 

"  Ah !  true — ^very  sad  !  " 

"  It  is  more  than  sad ;  but  your  boys  are  alive  and  well,  you 
can't  feel  it." 

"  I  have  lost  two  wives,"  feelingly  said  Mr.  Gervoise. 

"  And  I  would  have  lost  ten  rather  than  one  of  these  boys  ; 
and  they  are  both  gone,  both  of  them,  and  what  was  to  be  theirs 
must  go  to  strangers." 

"  That  is  a  melancholy  reflection,"  remarked  Mr.  Gervoise  ; 
but  he  said  no  more. 

"  WeU,"  said  Mr.  Carnoosie,  after  awhile. 

"  Well,  I  have  this  morning  seen  the  future  mistress  of  Car- 
noosie.    A  pretty  little  girl ! " 

"And  who  told  you? — ^how  do  you  kn^«v  she  v^iU  be  the 
mistress  of  Carnoosie  ?" 

"  My  dear  sir,  did  you  not  say " 

"  No,  sir,  I  did  not.  I  will  have  no  girls  in  Carnoosie.  I 
have  told  you  so  again  and  again,  and  it  is  about  the  boy  I  want 
to  hear." 


32  BEATEICE. 

"  I  saw  a  sickly  child ;  but  the  little  girl  is  like  her  mother, 
and  that  mother  is  a  very  pretty  young  woman." 

"But  low,"  said  Carnoosie,  with  a  groan,  "low.  Poor 
Joseph  degraded  himself  by  that  match ;  no  man  should  ever 
marry  beneath  him." 

"  Very  true.  However,  the  remembrance  of  that  marriage 
seems  by  no  means  pleasant  to  the  young  thing.  By-the-bye, 
the  letter  you  gave  me  must  have  been  written  some  time." 

"  Yes,  two  or  three  years,  I  think.  It  was  forgotten  at  my 
solicitor's." 

"  Just  so.  Now,  don't  be  angry  with  the  poor  little  thing — 
promise  you  will  not,  Mr.  Carnoosie." 

"Why  so?" 

"  Why,  because  she  is  married  again — that  is  all." 

"  Married  again ! — and  to  whom?" 

"  To  an  excellent  young  fellow,  Thomas  Grant,  a  carpenter. 
There  is  a  baby,  too,  and  a  fine  baby." 

Mr.  Carnoosie  raised  two  despairing  hands. 

"Poor  Carnoosie!"  he  said,  "is  that  your  fate?  But  it 
shall  not  be — it  cannot  be  !  No,  Joseph's  child  shall  not  bring 
such  a  family  as  that  to  Carnoosie." 

"  Mr.  Mortimer  will  certainly  do  better,"  quietly  said  Mr. 
Gcrvoise. 

"  Mortimer  ! — ^the  Radical ! — ^the  penny-a-liner,  sir  ! — never, 
sir!" 

The  old  man's  pale  face  was  flushed  with  anger.  Mr.  Ger- 
voise,  who  was  watching  him  curiously  from  behind  his  glasses, 
remained  silent. 

"  I  never  liked  Gordon,"  resumed  Mr.  Carnoosie,  "  and  yet 
it  must  be  Gordon.  He  is  well  off,  a  gentleman,  no  Radical. 
Yes,  it  must  be  Gordon.     You  say  he  has  boys,  Mr.  Gervoise?" 

"  Three,  I  understand." 

"  I  hope  he  may  keep  them,"  said  the  old  man,  with  a  deep, 
sad  sigh. 

"  The  worst  is,  that  he  is  out  of  town,"  observed  Mr.  Ger- 
voise. 

"Who  told  you  I  wanted  to  see  him?"  irefully  asked  Mr. 
Carnoosie.  "  Do  you  think  I  want  my  heir  to  be  hanging  about 
me,  fawning  upon  me,  and  wondering  all  the  time  how  long  the 
old  man  will  last?" 

"  My  dear  sir,"  expostulated  Mr.  Gervoise,  "  human  nature 
is  not  so  perverse." 

"  I  tell  you,  Mr.  Gervoise,  you  are  too  simple,  and  I  doubt 


BEATEIOE.  6d 

if  I  have  acted  wisely  in  choosing  you  for  a  trustee.  You  do 
not  know  the  world,  sir  ;  and  above  all,  you  do  not  know  human 
nature.  Why,  I  remember  now,  that  letter  in  your  hand  has  not 
been  written  more  than  a  year,  so  that  little  widow  was  actually 
married  again  when  she  wrote  to  me  for  money.  I  tell  you,  sir, 
that  Gordon,  though  in  no  need  of  Carnoosie,  not  being  a  poor 
man,  always  coveted  it,  and  must  covet  it  still  in  his  heart ;  and 
I  tell  you  that  I  should  hate  to  see  him,  and  know  that  he  is 
longing  for  my  death.  I  should  hate,  sir,  to  see  him  sitting  in 
that  chair  as  you  are  sitting  now,  and  looking  at  me  as  you  look 
at  me,  thinking  all  the  time,  '  Will  the  old  wretch  never  die  ? ' " 

"  I  do  not  know  much  of  Mr.  Gordon,"  said  Mr.  Gervoise  ; 
"  but  I  protest  that  I  think  him  incapable " 

"  Don't ! "  interrupted  Mr.  Carnoosie,  with  every  token  of 
impatience,  "  don't,  or  you  will  make  me  do  the  last  thing  I  want 
to  do — ^you  will  make  me  laugh  ! " 

"  Not  for  the  world !"  promptly  said  Mr.  (jrervoise  ;  "  not  for 
the  world ! " 

And  indeed  it  would  have  been  too  dreary  to  hear  that  sad 
old  man  burst  out  into  ghastly  merriment  at  Mr.  Gervoise's  sim- 
plicity. 

"  Ay !  it  must  be  Gordon  after  all — that  cold,  sly  Gordon, 
whom  I  never  Uked.  But  Carnoosie  must  go  to  the  old  blood. 
My  branch  of  the  tree  is  blasted  for  ever — another,  fresher  and 
newer,  may  yet  bear  fruit." 

It  was  Mr.  Carnoosie  who  spoke.  Poor  old  man  !  It  was 
indeed  a  living  death  to  sit  in  the  old  London  house  and  specu- 
late on  the  heirship  of  Carnoosie. 

"Are  you  going?"  he  asked,  seeing  Mr.  Gervoise  look  at 
his  watch. 

"  Yes,  I  must  leave  you.  I  have  an  appointment  in  the  City. 
Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you  ? " 

"  No,  thank  you — I  must  think  over  all  that." 

He  held  out  his  thin  cold  hand  to  Mr.  Gervoise,  who  gave  it 
a  tender  pat  and  an  affectionate  shake,  and  left  him.  This  time 
Mrs.  Scot  was  not  sitting  in  the  outer  room.  Mr.  Gervoise 
looked  for  her  in  the  parlour,  without  success.  There  was  no 
one  below,  save  John,  and  with  him  Mr.  Gervoise  had  no  wish 
to  speak. 

"  Mrs.  Scot  was  keeping  out  of  the  way,"  thought  Mr.  Ger- 
voise ;  "  that  looks  bad." 

It  may  be  that  Mrs.  Scot  was  keeping  out  of  the  way.  At 
all  events  she  was  up-stairs  sewing  in  a  very  bare  room  on  the 
2* 


34       '  BEATEICE. 

second  floor,  and  on  hearing  the  street  door  shut  she  looked  out 
of  the  window.  It  was  Mr.  Gervoise  who  was  walking  along 
the  pavement ;  the  coast  was  clear.  Mrs.  Scot  closed  the  window, 
folded  up  her  work,  and  went  down  to  her  master.  He  wanted 
her — ^he  generally  did  want  her  when  some  one  had  just  left 
him.  Mistrust  and  weakness  struggled  in  Mr.  Carnoosie's  mind. 
Weakness  made  him  cling  to  strength  wherever  he  found  it,  and 
mistrust  made  him  fear  his  own  subserviency.  He  thus  fre- 
quently vacillated  in  his  purposes,  not  so  much  because  he  could 
not  keep  his  mind  fixed  on  one  object,  as  because  he  was  con- 
scious of  being  unduly  influenced  by  whomsoever  came  near  him. 
No  sooner  therefore  was  Mr.  Gervoise  gone  and  did  Mrs.  Scot 
appear,  than  fearful  of  having  allowed  Mr.  Gervoise  too  much 
of  his  own  way,  Mr.  Camoosie  said  to  his  housekeeper, 
*      "  Mrs.  Scot." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Do  you  know  Plough  Lane,  Kensington?" 

"  No,  sir." 

"  But  you  could  find  it  out." 

"  I  dare  say  I  could." 

"  Well,  then,  I  want  you  to  go  there  at  once,  please,  and  see  a 
Mrs.  Grant,  a  carpenter's  wife — this  is  her  direction.  Take  and 
keep  that  letter,  and  read  it  if  you  like,  Mrs.  Scot,  I  have  no 
secrets  from  you.  Besides,  I  want  you  to  find  out  Mrs,  Grant. 
Do  you  know  who  she  is?" 

"  No  sir." 

"  She  is  Master  Joseph's  widow.  You  remember  Master 
Joseph?" 

"  No,  sir,  I  never  saw  him." 

"  Ah  !  to  be  sure.  Well,  she  is  his  widow,  as  I  said.  Find 
her  out,  Mrs.  Scot,  talk  to  her  on  some  woman's  pretence,  and 
tell  me  all  about  her,  and  her  children,  when  you  come  back." 

"  Am  I  to  go  now,  sir  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Scot,  do  go  now,  if  you  please.  I  am  sick  and 
weary  of  it  all." 

Without  uttering  a  word  of  comment,  Mrs.  Scot  left  the 
room,  went  up  to  her  own  apartment  on  the  second  floor,  put  on 
a  plain  black  bonnet  and  a  plain  black  shawl,  and  at  once  left  the 
house  on  her  errand. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Mrs.  Scot  liked  a  walk,  so  she  walked  from  Great  Ormond 
Street  to  Plough  Laue.  Once  there,  she  had  little  difficulty  in 
finding  out  Mrs.  Grant's  abode,  and  still  less  in  finding  out  Mi*s. 
Grant  herself. 

Mrs.  Grant  was  in  the  scullery  washing,  and  on  being  called 
by  her  landlady,  she  came  out  wiping  on  an  old  apron  a  pair  of 
strong  white  arms  covered  with  soapsuds.  She  gave  Mrs.  Scot 
an  inquiring  look,  which  Mrs.  Scot  answered  by  saying: — 

"  Is  your  husband  at  home,  ma'am?" 

"  No,  ma'am,  he  is  out  at  work." 

"Will  he  be  in  soon?" 

"  Not  till  evening,  ma'am." 

Mrs.  Scot  looked  disappointed,  and  supposed  she  must  call 
again.  Mrs.  Grant  suggested  that  if  her  husband  was  wanted 
for  a  job,  he  would  call  on  the  lady.  But  the  lady  did  not  ac- 
cede to  this  proposal ;  she  was  seldom  within,  she  said,  and  still 
she  wanted  to  see  Mr.  Grant.  Now,  as  she  spoke  Mrs.  Scot 
allowed  her  subtle  black  eyes  to  wander  very  searchingly  over 
Mrs.  Grant's  face  and  person,  and  to  rest  with  marked  attention 
on  the  child,  a  boy,  who  had  sat  down  on  the  last  step  of  the 
staircase  to  watch  the  strange  lady.  The  inexplicable  yet  uner- 
ring feminine  instinct  told  Mrs.  Grant  that  the  woman  who  stood 
before  her  had  come  with  no  friendly  purpose.  At  once  she  con- 
nected her  visit  with  Mr.  Gervoise's,  and  became  alarmed  and 
mistrustful.  Her  changing  colour  and  frightened  looks  betrayed 
her.  Mrs.  Scot  was  conscious  of  the  impression  she  produced, 
and  she  promptly  sought  to  know  why  her  presence  made  Mrs. 
Grant  uneasy. 

She  shot  a  random  arrow,  and  it  went  home. 

" I  believe  Mr.  Grant  is  your  second  husband,  ma'am?"  she 
said. 

"  No,  ma'am,  he  is  not,"  shortly  replied  Mrs.  Grant. 

"  Then  I  am  afraid  you  cannot  be  the  person  I  was  looking 
for,"  said  Mrs.  Scot. 


36  BEATRICE. 

"  Perhaps  not,  ma'am." 

"  I  was  looking  for  a  widow  whose  husband  died  in  Australia, 
and,  as  I  owed  him  a  trifle " 

"  It's  not  me,  ma'am,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Grant,  on  whom 
this  pretence,  identical  with  that  which  Mr.  Gervoise  had  framed, 
produced  a  most  unfavourable  impression. 

"  But,  perhaps,  you  could  help  me  to  find  out  that  person," 
plausibly  said  Mrs.  Scot. 

"  No,  ma'am,  I  know  no  one  about  here.  Perhaps  Mrs. 
Smith  can  tell  you,"  and  Mrs.  Grant,  seeming  to  consider  the 
matter  settled,  walked  back  to  the  scullery  and  to  the  washing- 
tub.  Mrs.  Scot  could  easily  have  taxed  her  with  the  letter  in 
her  pocket,  but  she  saw  no  necessity  for  doing  so  ;  her  mind  was 
made  up,  and  so  was  her  report,  and  without  even  taking  the 
trouble  of  questioning  Mrs.  Smith,  who  evidently  could  tell  her 
nothing,  or  Mrs.  Grant  would  not  have  referred  to  her,  she 
opened  the  street-door  and  let  herself  out. 

She  had  not  walked  ten  steps  from  the  house  when  she  met 
a  handsome  young  man  with  a  bag  of  tools  coming  towards  her. 

"  That  must  be  the  husband,"  thought  Mrs.  Scot,  and  she 
stopped  short,  resolved  to  question  him. 

"  Are  you  Thomas  Grant?"  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  I  am,"  he  briskly  replied. 

"  All  the  doors  at  our  house  are  out  of  repair — can  you  set 
them  right?" 

"  I  daresay  I  can,  ma'am,"  he  said  smiling  at  the*  question. 

Mrs.  Scot  tore  a  leaf  out  of  her  pocket-book,  on  which  her 
address  was  written,  and  gave  it  to  him. 

"  Can  you  come  to  me  next  Thursday  at  eight  o'clock?"  she 
asked. 

"  No,  ma'am  ;  will  not  Friday  do  ?  " 

"  "Well,  perhaps  it  will.  You  have  got  children,  have  you 
not?" 

"  Only  a  baby,  ma'am." 

"  Whose,  then,  is  the  little  boy  I  saw  at  your  house?" 

"  My  wife's  by  her  first  husband." 

"  He's  a  pretty  little  fellow,"  said  Mrs.  Scot,  as  if  to  explain 
the  question. 

"  He  is,  ma'am." 

"  And  like  you,  too." 

The  young  man  laughed  good-humouredly. 

"  Mind  you  don't  forget  Friday,"  said  Mrs.  Scot ;  and  giving 
him  a  nod,  she  walked  away. 


BEATEICE.  37 

She  had  come  by  Bayswater,  but  she  went  away  by  Ken- 
sington. "When  she  got  to  Campden  Hill  she  stood  still  to  think. 
There  were  but  few  houses  then  along  that  pretty  lane,  and  the 
spot  where  Mrs.  Scot  stood  was  perfectly  solitary.  She  was  ab- 
sorbed in  thought,  and  did  not  feel  a  drizzling  rain  falling  around 
her,  till  she  was  aware  of  a  large  umbrella  being  extended  over 
her  bonnet,  whilst  a  courteous  voice  said, 

"  I  beg  you  will  accept  of  this,  Mrs.  Scot." 

Mrs.  Scot  looked  round.  It  was  Mr.  Gervoise  who  spoke, 
and  it  was  Mr.  Gervoise's  silk  umbrella  which  now  protected 
her  from  the  rain.  They  exchanged  glances,  searching,  keen, 
and  mistrustful ;  then  Mr.  Gervoise  smiled  and  said, 

"  Shall  we  walk  down  the  lane,  Mrs.  Scot?" 

"  I  am  robbing  you  of  your  umbrella,  sir." 

"  Oh  !  not  at  all.  Besides,  you  would  not  have  me  forsake  a 
lady  in  distress,  would  you?  " 

Now,  it  so  happened  that,  though  Mrs.  Scot  would  willingly 
have  dispensed  with  Mr.  Gervoise's  escort,  yet,  as  she  had  a 
new  bonnet  on,  she  could  not,  without  being  untrue  to  every 
feminine  instinct,  decline  it,  so  they  walked  down  the  quiet  lane 
side  by  side. 

"  I  have  a  strong  impression,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Gervoise, 
"  that  we  were  both  bent  on  the  same  errand.  I  wished  to  have 
another  talk  with  poor  Mrs.  Grant,  and  I  believe  you  have  been 
with  her." 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  have,"  replied  Mrs.  Scot. 
/   Concealment  was  useless,  and  might  have  been  unadvisable. 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Scot,"  confidentially  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  "  what 
do  you  think  of  that  poor  lady  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  much  about  her,  sir." 

«  Oh  !  ah  !  indeed  !  " 

Mr.  Gervoise  looked  as  thoughtful  as  if  Mrs.  Scot  had  ut- 
tered a  profound  reply,  over  which  he  felt  bound  to  meditate. 
Then  he  resumed ; 

"  Did  you  see  her  husband  ?  " 

"Which,  sir?" 

"  Which ! — ^the  living  one,  to  be  sure." 

"  Are  you  sure  the  first  is  dead,  sir  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Scot,  look- 
ing hard  at  him. 

Mr.  Gervoise  looked  amazed. 

"•Sure  of  it?  Why,  Mrs.  Scot,  Mrs.  Grant  has  married 
again  ;  surely  that  is  proof." 

"  I  don't  think  it  is  any  proof." 


38  BEATKICE. 

"  Mrs.  Scot? — ^I  cannot  have  understood  you  rightly." 

But  Mrs.  Scot  assured  him  that  he  had.  Mr.  Gervoise  was 
a  good  man ;  he  could  not  believe  in  the  depravity  Mrs.  Scot 
suggested,  so  he  took  a  charitable  view  of  the  subject,  and  hinted 
that  if  Mrs.  Grant  really  had  any  doubts  concerning  her  first 
husband's  death,  she  had  never  really  and  legally  married  the 
second. 

"  Let  us  think  they  were  never  married,  Mrs.  Scot ;  I  like 
that  better." 

Mrs.  Scot  did  not  answer.  She  rarely  gave  her  opinion, 
even  when  asked  for  it,  and  of  course  never  when  it  was  not  di- 
rectly solicited. 

"  Well,  I  may  be  mistaken,"  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  after  a 
pause ;  "  but  still,  Mrs.  Scot,  is  it  not  awful  to  think  of  that 
poor,  uneducated  Mrs.  Grant,  and  her  husband,  a  common  work- 
ing man,  lording  it  in  Carnoosie  ?  " 

Still  Mrs.  Scot  did  not  answer. 

Mr.  Gervoise  sighed. 

"  Ah  !  Mrs.  Scot,"  he  said,  "  I  am  afraid  of  you — I  am." 

"  Afraid,  sir  ! — ^what  for  ?  " 

"  You  are  so — ^how  shall  I  say  it? — so  impenetrable." 

Mrs.  Scot  smiled  grimly.     She  appreciated  the  praise. 

"  And  yet  it  would  be  so  easy,"  suggested  Mr.  Gervoise ; 
"  we  have  the  same  objects  in  view — ^we  mean  all  for  the  best. 
I  put  it  to  you,  Mrs.  Scot,  will  these  Grants  do  ?  " 

"  I  know  nothing  about  the  Gordon's  sir." 

"  Then  you  shall  know  everything  about  them,  Mrs.  Scot. 
Mr.  Gordon  is  a  delightful  man,  and  he  would  appreciate  and 
value  you  highly." 

"  New  people  don't  like  old  faces,  sir." 

" Mrs.  Scot,  shall  I  pledge  my  word?" 

"  If  Mr.  Gordon  will  give  me  a  written  promise." 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Scot,  suppose  you  were  to  drop  it,  and  Mr. 
Carnoosie  to  find  it.     No — ^no,  you  must  trust  to  me,  or " 

Here  Mr.  Gervoise  paused  to  take  off  his  hat  to  a  stylish- 
looking  lady,  whose  carriage  was  slowly  driving  up  the  lane, 
and  who  returned  his  courteous  bow  with  a  gracious  smile.  It 
was  a  trifle,  but  it  decided  a  graver  matter,  and  settled  a  debate 
in  Mrs.  Scot's  mind.  Mr.  Gervoise  held  the  umbrella  over  her 
bonnet  with  one  hand,  and  with  the  other  took  off  the  hat  from 
his  handsome  head  to  bow  to  the  lady,  thus  linking  her,  the 
housekeeper  of  Carnoosie,  with  the  tenant  of  the  carriage.  It 
was  a  trifle,  but  it  was  of  a  keeping  with  his  whole  bearing. 


BEATRICE.  39 

Mr.  Gervoise  had  fine  manners,  grand  manners,  which  suited 
his  stately  person,  and  which  he  bestowed  on  all  womankind. 
To  men  he  was  by  no  means  so  liberal,  and  he  was  certainly 
more  courteous  to  Mrs.  Scot  than  to  her  master.  Now,  hard 
and  withered  as  was  Mrs.  Scot's  heart,  the  word  woman  was 
not  erased  from  it  yet.  She  was  not  woman  in  gentleness,  in 
feeling,  in  kindliness,  but  she  was  woman  in  her  sensitiveness  to 
the  neglects  and  slights  that  are  woman's  lot,  when  her  fading 
beauty  is  not  guarded  by  rank  or  by  money.  So  she  was  grate- 
ful in  her  way  to  almost  the  only  man  from  whom  she  had  re- 
ceived a  graceful  act  of  courtesy  for  the  last  ten  years. 

"  What  was  I  saying?"  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  perceiving  they 
had  reached  the  end  of  the  lane. 

"You  were  talking  of  Mr.  Gordon,  sir,"  replied  Mrs.  Scot, 
turning  back. 

"  Ay  !  to  be  sure,  of  Mr.  Gordon.  Well,  his  wife  is  a  mere 
baby,  and  will  require  your  guidance,  Mrs.  Scot.  Indeed,  this 
is  a  point  about  which  I  need  not  argue.  Camoosie  cannot  do 
without  you,  you  know." 

Mrs.  Scot  seemed  to  meditate.  Then  suddenly  raising  her 
subtle  black  eyes  to  Mr.  Gervoise,  she  said  briefly : 

"  I  should  like  to  see  those  Gordons." 

"  Very  natural,  but  they  are  travelling." 

Mrs.  Scot  walked  on  a  few  steps,  then  put  a  concise  but  com- 
prehensive question. 

"What  are  they  like?" 

"  The  Gordons  ? — oh !  to  be  sure  !  Well,  Mr.  Gordon  is  tall, 
and  fair,  and  pale  ;  a  man  of  forty  or  so — very  amiable.  Mrs. 
Gordon  very  amiable  too  ;  a  little  dark  woman — very  languid. 
The  three  boys  are  fine,  high-spirited  lads  ;  and  that  is  really  all 
I  know  about  them,  Mrs.  Scot." 

Mrs.  Scot  seemed  to  think  that  was  not  much,  but  she 
merely  said : 

"  Mr.  Carnoosie  shall  decide,  sir." 

"  Just  so,  but  you  can  help  him  to  see  his  way.  He  thinks 
highly  of  you,  Mrs.  Scot." 

Mrs.  Scot  knew  nothing  about  that,  but  she  allowed  Mr. 
Gervoise  to  lead  her  up  and  down  the  lane,  and  talk  to  her  in  his 
grand,  courteous,  persuasive  way ;  and  matters  were  progressing 
very  much  to  Mr.  Gervoise's  satisfaction,  when  Gilbert  and 
Beatrice  turned  a  corner  of  the  lane,  and  came  running  hand-in- 
hand  towards  them.  Now,  Mrs.  Scot  merely  knew  that  Mr. 
Gervoise  had  chambers  in  Gray's  Inn ;  of  his  Kensington  abode 


4:0  BEATRICE. 

she  had  no  suspicion  ;  she  thought  the  chambers  sufficient  to  his 
wants,  and  was  far  from  imagining  that  he  could  feel  lonely  in 
them,  and  require  the  society  of  Mrs.  Gordon  and  Beatrice. 
With  some  surprise  she  saw  that  these  children  knew  him,  and 
with  a  look  of  mingled  inquiry  and  mistrust,  she  gazed  down  in 
Beatrice's  little  dark  face. 

"  Good  morning,  little  ones,"  airily  said  Mr.  Gervoise. 
"  Take  care  of  the  child,  Gilbert,"  and,  waving  his  hand  to  them, 
he  walked  on. 

"  I  have  seen  that  face  before,"  said  Mrs.  Scot,  looking  after 
Beatrice,  who  was  looking  after  her.  "  I  have  seen  it  in  Car- 
noosie." 

"  No,  my  dear  madam,  you  have  not ;  that  child  was  bom  in 
Spain,  and  has  not  been  three  months  in  England." 

"  I  did  not  say  I  had  seen  the  child,  I  said  I  had  seen  her 
face." 

Mr.  Gervoise  raised  his  eyeSrows,  and  smiled ;  but  though 
Mrs.  Scot  looked  hard  at  him,  she  could  detect  nothing  like  em- 
barrassment or  confusion,  or  guilt  of  any  kind,  in  his  handsome 
face. 

So  they  resumed  their  conversation,  and  walked  up  and  down 
the  lane,  till,  coming  once  more  to  the  end,  Mrs.  Scot  hailed  an 
omnibus,  and  parted  from  Mr.  Gervoise. 

She  soon  reached  Great  Ormond  Street.  At  the  street  door 
of  her  master's  house  she  met  his  lawyer  coming  out,  and  she 
guessed  what  his  errand  had  been.  Up-stairs  she  found  Mr. 
Carnoosie  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  and  looking  very  pale  and 
exhausted.  So  he  had  been  making  his-will  in  her  absence  ;  he 
had  sent  her  on  a  fool's  errand  after  all.  With  more  contempt 
than  displeasure  Mrs.  Scot  watched  that  feeble  face,  and  with  a 
scornful  smile  she  thought  how  she  was  going  to  undo  all  Mr. 
Carnoosie's  secret  work.  But  though  she  came  forward,  she  let 
him  speak  first. 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Scot?"  he  said,  inquiringly. 

"  Well,  sir,  I  saw  Mrs.  Grant." 

"And  the  boy?" 

"  I  saw  a  boy." 

"  Which,  Mrs.  Scot.     You  know  she  is  married  again?  " 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,  sir ;  according  to  her  account  she 
never  had  but  one  husband,  the  living  one." 

"  Why,  surely — surely  she  was  Joseph's  wife  ! "  cried  Mr. 
Carnoosie. 

"  Well,  sir,  I  do  not  say  she  was  not ;  but  I  saw  a  little  boy, 


BEATEICE.  41 

who  is  very  like  Mr.  Grant — ^blue  eyes,  fair  hair — ^his  very 
image." 

Perplexity  and  dismay  appeared  on  Mr.  Carnoosie's  counte- 
nance, and  he  asked : 

" Did  you  see  that  Mr.  Grant,  then?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  met  him.  He  is  to  come  next  Friday  and  set- 
tle the  doors." 

"  And  is  the  child  his  chHd,  Mrs.  Scot?" 

"  He  says  not,  sir." 

Mr.  Carnoosie  long  remained  silent.  That  Mr.  Grant's 
child  might  not  be  his  dead  cousin's,  had  never  occurred  to  him 
before.  Now  he  felt  grievous  doubts  on  the  subject.  What  if 
Mrs.  Scot's  evident  suspicion  were  founded  on  truth  !  What  if 
he  had  been  running  the  fearful  risk  of  bestowing  his  ancestral 
Carnoosie  on  Thomas  Grant,  the  carpenter's  child !  Oh  !  what 
a  mockery  on  the  plans  of  a  lifetime  !  Mrs.  Scot  watched  him, 
wondering  how  it  would  end.  At  length  Mr.  Carnoosie  sighed 
deeply,  and  raised  his  head,  which  had  been  sunk  on  his  breast. 

"  Mrs.  Scot,"  he  said,  handing  her  his  keys,  "  open  the 
second  drawer  of  that  bureau,  if  you  please,  and  take  out  a  sheet 
of  foolscap  tied  with  red  tape." 

Mrs.  Scot  obeyed  slowly  and  methodically ;  when  Mr.  Car- 
noosie held  the  paper  he  had  asked  for,  he  quietly  thrust  it  into 
the  fire,  and  said  drearily, 

"  There,  you  have  lost  Carnoosie,  my  little  one." 

"  Just  so,"  thought  Mrs.  Scot ;  "  and  if  your  mother  had  kept 
a  civil  tongue  in  her  head,  it  might  have  done  her  some  good." 
And  not  without  satisfaction,  Mrs.  Scot  remembered  the  pretty 
face  and  the  white  arms  glistening  with  soap-suds ;  and  as  she 
saw  the  paper  burning,  she  felt  that  she  had  her  revenge.  But 
Mr.  Carnoosie  looked  and  felt  sorely  troubled.  He  had,  after 
much  hesitation  and  doubt,  made  his  will,  and  the  ink  with  which 
it  was  written  was  scarcely  dry,  when  he  destroyed  it.  And  now 
he  must  leave  his  property  to  that  Gordon  after  all,  and  it  was 
all  to  begin  over  again.  Mrs.  Scot  watched  him  with  a  cool, 
sarcastic  glance,  and  again  waited  till  he  spoke. 

"  Mrs.  Scot,"  he  said  at  length. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  I  think  I  shall  send  for  Mr.  Gervoise." 

"  Very  well,  sir." 

"  I  think  he  is  a  good  man,  Mrs.  Scot."  He  gave  her  an 
appealing  look,  which  said :  "  Let  me  have  that  comfort,  Mrs. 
Scot.     Let  me  cling  to  that,  if  you  please." 


4:2  BEATRICE. 

Now  Mrs.  Scot  no  doubt  thought  Mr.  Gervoise  a  good  man, 
but  no  doubt  she  also  thought  two  good  men  better  than  one,  for 
her  slow  reply  was  :  . 

"  He  is,  sir  ;  and  so  is  Mr.  Raby." 

"  Mr.  Raby  !  what  Mr.  Raby  ?  " 

"  The  one  that  you  were  trustee  for,  sir." 

Mr.  Carnoosie  did  not  answer,  but  looked  deeply  perplexed. 
He  knew  Mrs.  Scot's  meaning,  and  the  vista  it  opened  was  be- 
wildering. What  should  he  do?  On  what  should  he  decide? 
His  head  ached,  he  felt  miserable  and  distressed.  It  was  very 
dreadful  all  this  toil  of  thought.  Ah  !  if  his  boys,  if  those  two 
fine,  noble  boys  of  his  had  been  living ! 

"And  how  are  we  this  afternoon?"  asked  a  pleasant  voice. 
"How  are  we?" 

Mrs.  Scot  started  and  looked  round  from  her  master's 
chair.  It  was  Mr.  Gervoise,  bland,  handsome,  and  smiling. 
Had  he  overheard  any  thing  ?  Nothing  in  his  pleasant  face  be- 
trayed that  he  had.  Mrs.  Scot  softly  withdrew,  while  Mr.  Car- 
noosie said,  with  some  eagerness  : 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you — I  wanted  you — sit  down — ^give  me 
pen  and  ink,  I  am  going  to  have  done  with  it." 

"  Very  right — very  right ! "  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  looking  hard 
at  a  piece  of  half-burned  foolscap  in  the  fender.  "  Get  rid  of  it 
by  all  means." 

"  I  have  given  up  the  boy  in  Plough  Lane." 
.    "  Excuse  me,"  interrupted  Mr.  Gervoise,  "  I  feel  a  strong 
draught." 

He  rose  and  closed  the  door,  and  the  draught  being  stiU  too 
strong,  he  drew  and  unfolded  a  tall  japanned  screen  around  Mr. 
Carnoosie's  chair  and  his  own. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  briskly,  "  I  think  we  are  all  right." 

"  I  have  given  up  the  boy  in  Plough  Lane,"  said  Mr.  Car- 
noosie.    "  But  I  must  see  Gordon." 

"  He  is  on  the  Continent,  I  believe." 

"With  his  boys?" 

"  With  his  boys." 

"And  suppose  they  are  drowned  or  killed?" 

"  I  would  advise  you  to  provide  against  the  contingency." 

"  And  suppose  you  die  suddenly?  " 

"  What  am  I  to  say,  my  dear  sir  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  want  you  to  say  any  thing,  Mr.  Gervoise  ;  I  only 
mean  to  warn  you  that  I  mean  to  have  a  second  trustee." 


BEATEIOE.  4:3 

Mr.  Gervoise  looked  thoughtM ;  perhaps  the  vision  of  a  sud- 
den death  held  forth  to  him  was  not  pleasant ;  he  said  at  length, 

"  Very  wise,  my  dear  sir,  very ;  of  course  another  trustee  in 
the  event  of  my  sudden  decease  is  the  very  thing." 

"  No,  that  is  not  my  meaning.  We  will  have  another  trus- 
tee during  your  lifetime,  and  so  if  one  dies  the  other  remains." 

"  Extremely  judicious,"  calmly  said  Mr.  Gervoise  ;  "  but  may 
I  ask  with  whom  I  am  to  act — I  need  not  tell  you  it  may  make 
a  difference  to  me." 

"You  would  not  draw  back,  Gervoise,  would  you? — ^you 
would  not  draw  back?" 

"  My  dear  sir,  I  told  you  from  the  first — " 

"  Yes,  but  you  will  not  draw  back,"  implored  Mr.  Camoosie. 
"  It  is  only  an  old  friend  of  mine,  Mr.  Raby ;  you  have  heard 
me  speak  of  Mr.  Raby  ?  " 

Mr.  Gervoise  looked  thoughtful.  No,  he  could  not  say  he 
remembered. 

"  I  was  one  of  his  trustees,"  continued  Mr.  Camoosie  ;  "for 
he  was  an  orphan ;  and  a  world  of  trouble  I  had,  so  he  cannot 
say  me  nay." 

Mr.  Gervoise  still  looked  very  thoughtful.  "  I  must  think 
over  this,  Mr.  Camoosie,"  he  said  ;  "  it  is  a  very  serious  matter. 
Your  heir  may  die  before  he  comes  into  possession  ;  then  there 
will  be  minors  of  course,  and  a  long  and  serious  responsibility 
to  be  shared  with  this  Mr.  Raby.  I  assure  you  I  must  think 
over  it." 

Mr.  Carnoosie  looked  irritable  and  distressed. 

"  It  is  enough  to  make  one  die,"  he  said,  peevishly,  "  to  hear 
so  much  about  one's  death  beforehand.  Coming  into  possession, 
minors  and  trustees,  I  am  sick  of  the  whole  of  it,  Mr.  Gervoise, 
and  I  don't  know  why  I  make  a  will  at  all.  I  do  believe  it  was 
you  first  put  it  into  my  head." 

"  Then,  my  dear  sir,  allow  me,  as  a  matter  of  delicacy,  to 
withdraw  altogether.  You  can  have  Mr.  Raby,  and  you  can 
easily  find  some  other  friend;  in  short,"  said  Mr.  Gervoise, 
rising,  "  we  shall  both  be  better  pleased.  Not  a  word — 1  am 
not  offended  ;  not  at  all." 

Mr.  Carnoosie  rose  too,  and,  clinging  to  his  chair  for  sup- 
port, he  said  eagerly,  "  You  won't  desert  me — ^you  can't  desert 
me,  Mr.  Gervoise.  I  am  not  sure  of  Mr.  Raby.  I  do  not  even 
know  where  he  is.     Let  that  rest,  Mr.  Gervoise,  let  that  rest." 

"  Let  it  rest,"  kindly  said  Mr.  Gervoise ;  "  and  now,"  he 
added,  dipping  a  pen  in  ink,  and  drawing  a  sheet  of  paper  to- 


44:  BEATEICE. 

wards  him,  "  shall  I  just  put  down  a  few  of  the  items  for  you. 
'  To  Richard  Gordon,  or,  if  the  said  Richard  Gordon  should  die 
before  coming  into  possession,  to  his  issue,'  is  not  that  it?" 

"  Yes,  I  hate  the  man  ;  but  he  is  of  the  old  stock,  after  all. 
Well,  what  are  you  in  a  brown  study  for?" 

"  I  am  thinking  of  the  extraordinary  shrewdness  and  perspi- 
cuity you  display,  my  dear  sir,  in  thus  disposing  of  the  estate  ; 
but  will  you  allow  me  to  suggest  something  to  you?" 

Mr.  Carnoosie  nodded. 

"  You  have  provided  for  the  event  of  Mr.  Gordon's  death — 
would  it  not  be  wise  and  proper  to  allow  his  widow,  if  he  should 
leave  one,  a  jointure?" 

"  I  shall  see  about  that." 

"Allow  me  also  to  put  a  question  concerning  my  share  in 
this  matter.  My  trust  is  at  an  end  if  Mr.  Gordon  survives  you ; 
but  suppose  he  does  not,  am  I  to  be  trustee  for  his  children — and 
suppose  they  die,  am  I  to  be  trustee  for  their  children — and  sup- 
they  die — " 

"Pll  have  no  more  of  that,"  passionately  interrupted  Mr. 
Carnoosie.  "  Do  you  want  to  make  a  churchyard  of  the  room, 
that  you  go  on  so  ?  " 

"  My  dear  sir,  it  is  business — only  business." 

"  Take  that  paper  with  you  to  a  lawyer,  and  get  it  drawn  up, 
and  bring  it  to  me  to  sign,  and  let  me  hear  no  more  of  it,"  said 
Mr.  Carnoosie  plaintively.     "  All  I  want  is  to  have  it  over." 

"So  do  I,  for  your  sake." 

"  I  wish  it  were  all  over,"  continued  ]VIr.  Carnoosie,  "  and, 
Mr.  Gervoise*,  I  should  like  to  see  Mr.  Gordon  after  all.  Do 
you  think  we  could  manage  it  ?  " 

Mr.  Gervoise  hesitated. 

"  Why,  yes,  with  time,"  he  said  at  length. 

"You  are  sure?" 

Mr.  Gervoise  looked  at  him  and  smiled. 

Yes,  he  was  quite  sure. 

"  Well,  then,  leave  me,  please  ;  come  round  with  the  lawyer 
to-morrow  morning." 

He  looked  so  feeble  and  exhausted  that  Mr.  Gervoise  would 
have  liked  to  come  round  with  the  lawyer  this  same  evening,  and 
part  of  his  fears  he  communicated  to  Mrs.  Scot  when  he  found 
her  in  the  outer  room.  She  did  not  share  his  apprehensions, 
though  she  promised  to  sit  up  with  her  master  that  night.  Mr; 
Gervoise  also  thought  it  more  prudent  to  spend  the  night  in  his 
chambers,  and  not  return  to  Kensington. 


BEATRICE.  45 

Early  the  next  morning  lie  came  round  with  a  lawyer.  Mr. 
Camoosie  though  weak  was  collected,  and  equal  to  the  task  of 
dictating  his  will.  Mr.  Gervoise  scrupulously  abstained  from 
interfering,  and  read  the  paper  whilst  the  business  went  on. 
When  it  was  over,  however,  he  consented  to  take  charge  of  the 
document. 

"  And  long  may  it  be  before  I  surrender  it,"  he  said  with  a 
benevolent  smile  ;  "  long  may  it  be  ! " 

"  You'll  let  me  have  a  copy  of  it,"  feebly  said  Mr.  Camoosie. 

"  By  all  means,  my  dear  sir,  by  all  means.  Are  you  going 
home  soon?" 

"  To-day." 

"I  shall  see  you  off,"  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  patting  his  hand. 
"  I  shall  see  you  off." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

The  old  house  in  Great  Ormond  Street  was  shut  up,  and  for 
some  reason  or  other  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grant  had  left  Plough  Lane  ; 
but  Rosemary  Cottage  was  gay  and  prosperous,  and  happy ;  Mr. 
Gervoise  was  grand  and  courteous,  Mrs.  Gordon  was  very  lively, 
and  Gilbert  and  Beatrice  were  insepafrable. 

There  stood  in  the  back  parlour  of  Rosemary  Cottage  a  vast 
and  deep  arm-chair  in  which  they  delighted,  fior  the  excellent 
reason  that  it  held  them  both.  Gilbert  got  in  first,  then  Beatrice 
climbed  up,  and  if  the  chair  was  not  wide  enough,  why  could  she 
not  sit  or  trample  upon  Gilbert  ? 

Some  love  passages  were  enacted  in  that  chair,  and  some 
battles  too.  Indeed,  the  battles  generally  came  first,  and  the 
love  passages  followed.  In  both  Beatrice  was  chief  actor.  She 
was  impetuous,  but  she  was  also  fond ;  and  if,  PaUas-like,  she 
had  pulled  the  fair  and  fiowing  locks  of  her  young  Achilles  rather 
too  energetically,  she  was  prompt  to  make  amends  with  an  em- 
brace and  a  kiss,  which  was  more  than  Minerva  did.  Mrs. 
Gordon  sometimes  wondered  that  Mr.  Gervoise  kept  his  elder 
son  at  home  to  romp  and  play  with  Beatrice,  but  that  gentleman 
replying  that  his  great  object  was  to  make  Gilbert  learn  English, 
and  that  he  could  not  do  so  more  pleasantly  and  more  easily  than 
by  enjoying  her  daughter's  society,  Mrs.  Gordon  was  satisfied, 
and  in  her  anxiety  to  please  her  boarder,  forbore  to  send 
Beatrice  to  school.  Thus  the  arm-chair  in  the  back  parlour  was 
rarely  empty,  for  the  weather  was  wet,  and  out-door  exercise 
objectionable. 

Mr.  Gervoise  remained  a  good  deal  at  home,  and  he  bestowed 
a  considerable  share  of  his  society  on  Mrs.  Gordon  in  the  front 
parlour.  She  became  accustomed  to  it,  and  when  he  happened 
to  leave  her  she  missed  him  very  much.  She  missed  him  ex- 
ceedingly one  dull  and  dreary  afternoon.  He  had  been  gone 
since  the  morning,  and  the  day  wore  on,  and  stiU  he  was  not 
coming  back.     Such  a  day,  too,  as  it  was  !     Sleet  turning  into 


BEATEICE.  4Y 

snow !  What  kept  him  out  so  long ! — ^business  ;  but  what  busi- 
ness? Was  he  rich?  she  wondered.  From  that  thought  she 
went  to  another,  until  she  came  back  to  the  first :  what  kept  him 
out  so  long  ? 

In  the  meanwhile,  Gilbert  and  Beatrice  were  deep  in  the  arm- 
chair and  deep  in  conversation,  half  real  and  half  dreamy,  accord- 
ing to  the  way  of  children.  They  had  had  a  terrible  game  of 
romping,  and  felt  tired.  At  least  Gilbert  leaned  back  in  the 
chair,  shut  his  eyes,  let  his  arms  hang  loosely,  stretched  his  legs, 
and  professed  himself  exhausted. 

"Are  you?"  asked  Beatrice  with  concern. 

"  Oh !  very — I  am  quite  faint." 

Through  his  half-shut  eyes  he-saw  her  bending  over  him  ;  she 
too  was  in  the  chair,  and  when  she  was  close  to  him  he  suddenly 
seized  her,  and,  with  a  shout  of  triumph,  attempted  to  kiss  her. 
Now  Beatrice  had  a  very  feminine  instinct ;  she  would  kiss 
Gilbert,  but  would  never  let  Gilbert  kiss  her  if  she  could  help  it. 
This  was  well  known  to  Mr.  Gervoise's  son,  and,  albeit  not  more 
aifectionate  than  boys  are,  he  took  infinite  pleasure  in  rousing 
Beatrice's  indignation  and  shrill  screams  on  that  score.  The 
contest  generally  ended  with  the  magnanimous  declaration  on 
his  part,  "  Now,  Beatrice,  do  not  be  sUly,  as  if  I  wanted  to  kiss 
you ! "  And  indeed  satisfied  with  having  had  the  pleasure  of 
teazing  her,  Gilbert  generally  released  his  enemy  when  he  was 
on  the  brink  of  victory.  The  present  instance  proved  no  excep- 
tion to  the  rule.  Gilbert  seeing  that  tears  of  vexation  stood  in 
Beatrice's  dark  eyes,  suddenly  let  her  go,  and  said  good-humour- 
edly, 

"  Oh,  you  ninny  !  don't  you  know  that  I  never  do  it?  Why, 
it  is  never  I  who  kiss  you,  Beatrice — ^it  is  always  you  who  kiss 
me." 

Beatrice  checked  her  tears  and  laughed,  nestled  close  to  Gil- 
bert with  perfect  confidence,  and  whispered  in  his  ear, 

"  Tell  me  a  story." 

"  I  have  not  one  left." 

"Do,  Gilbert ;  there's  a  dear." 

But  Gilbert  was  obdurate.  Then  Beatrice  asked  him  to 
tell  her  about  VervHle  and  its  Chateau,  which  was  also  his  birth- 
place. This  request  Gilbert  complied  with  to  the  best  of  his 
power. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  it,"  dreamily  said  Beatrice  ;  "  but  I  am 
afraid  to  cross  the  sea." 

"  You  little  goose,  I  shall  put  you  on  my  back  and  carry  you 
over ! " 


48  BEATRICE. 

This  suggestion  tickled  them  both  amazingly ;  for  it  proved 
that  Gilbert's  legs  must  be  very  long,  also  that  Beatrice  must  be 
careful  of  her  skirts,  and  many  other  entertaining  fancies  of  the 
kind,  each  of  which  provoked  long  bursts  of  laughter. 

"  Has  it  four  fountains?"  suddenly  asked  Beatrice. 

"  Four  fountains  !  no,  why  should  it?" 

Beatrice  did  not  answer.  A  red-brick  mansion  rose  before 
her ;  majestic  trees  and  four  fountains  with  waters  bright  and 
sparkling  as  liquid  diamonds,  completed  the  picture.  She  seemed 
rapt  in  her  dream,  and  Gilbert  looked  at  her  with  some  wonder. 
Young  as  he  was,  he  often  felt  that  Beatrice  was  not  a  child  like 
any  other  child.  Her  language,  her  fancies,  and  her  looks  were 
often  beyond  her  years.  Just  now,  with  her  dark  rapt  eyes  and 
her  red  lips  parted,  she  had  an  elfish  aspect,  which  puzzled  his 
companion. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  pinching  her,  "  what  are  you  thinking 
about?" 

Beatrice  turned  slowly  round  and  looked  at  him  earnestly ; 
then  she  laid  her  cheek  to  his,  and  whispered  softly, 

"  I  like  you,  Gilbert,  but  I  don't  like " 

"  Hold  your  tongue,"  interrupted  Gilbert,  turning  crimson, 
"  how  dare  you  say  it ! " 

For  he  knew  to  whom  Beatrice's  declaration  of  dislike  refer- 
red. His  blue  eyes  and  his  kind  face  both  wore  a  meaning  of 
such  severity  that  Beatrice  was  abashed. 

"  Why  will  you  say  those  things  ? "  asked  Gilbert  softening 
down  to  a  tone  of  mild  remonstrance. 

"  He's  in  the  next  room,"  she  whispered. 

"  My  father — nonsense  ! " 

But  Beatrice's  hearing  was  keen,  and  she  again  declared  that 
Mr.  Gervoise  was  in  the  next  room.  Gilbert  would  not  believe 
her ;  an  argument  followed,  and,  to  put  aur  end  to  it,  Gilbert 
rose  and  abruptly  opened  the  door  which  separated  the  two  par- 
lours. Beatrice  was  right ;  Mr.  Gervoise  was  there  and,  what 
was  more,  it  was  evident  from  his  attitude  that  father  and  son 
had  been  engaged  pretty  much  in  the  same  fashion,  with  the 
difference  which  lies  between  fourteen  and  forty,  and  between 
jest  and  earnest ;  for  Mrs.  Gordon  was  leaning  back  on  the  sofa 
with  a  blush  on  her  cheek ;  and  Mr.  Gervoise  was  kissing  her 
fair  hand  with  a  look  of  very  tender  devotion. 

He  quickly  turned  round  on  hearing  the  door  open;  and 
seeing  Gilbert,  who  stared  amazed  on  the  threshold  of  the  room, 
and  behind  him  Beatrice,  who  stared  with  all  the  might  of  her 


BEATRICE.  4:9 

black  eyes,  lie  rose,  and  without  relinqnisliing  Mrs.  Gordon's 
hand,  said  sweetly, 

"  My  love." 

Beatrice  came  forward,  and  looked  at  them  with  a  dim  fore- 
shadowing of  the  truth — ^not  in  its  actual  reality  indeed,  but  in 
its  terror. 

"  Come,  my  dear  Beatrice,"  said  her  guardian,  beckoning 
the  child  to  approach  ;  "  your  affectionate  mother  has  something 
to  tell  you." 

"  I  cannot,  I  cannot,  Mr.  Gervoise  !"  hysterically  cried  Mrs. 
Gordon  ;  "  do  not  ask  me  to  do  it ! " 

"  No,  my  love — I  shall  do  it  for  you.  Gilbert- — ^Beatrice," 
said  Mr.  Gervoise,  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  parlour,  and 
expanding  both  his  hands  as  he  looked  at  the  astonished  children, 
"  you  have  each  got  a  new  parent.  In  a  few  days  Mrs.  Gordon 
will  become  Mrs.  Gervoise." 

Despair,  rage,  and  grief  filled  Beatrice's  poor  little  heart  as 
she  heard  him.  She  looked  at  him,  then  at  her  mother,  who 
was  leaning  back  on  the  sofa,  hiding  her  face  in  her  hands  ;  then 
at  Gilbert,  who  stood  mute  and  astonished.  She  vaguely  felt  his 
love  was  the  only  love  left  to  her  now,  and  to  him  she  flew, 
throwing  her  arms  around  him,  clinging  to  him,  and  sobbing 
passionately. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  "  I  think  you  had  better 
remove  the  child.     Gilbert,  take  her  into  the  next  room." 

Beatrice,  still  sobbing  piteously,  allowed  Gilbert  to  lead  her 
to  the  back  parlour.     Mrs.  Gordon  followed  them  out. 

"Beatrice,  what  ails  you?"  asked  the  poor  lady,  trying  to 
be  severe,  and  speaking  with  involuntary,  fondness. 

Beatrice's  sobs  were  only  broken  by  a  few  passionate  words — 

"  Poor — dear — ^poor  papa  !" 

Mrs.  Gordon,  who  was  bending  over  her,  drew  back  as  if 
she  had  been  struck.  Injudiciously,  though  most  sincerely,  had 
she  often  told  Beatrice  that  she  would  never  marry  again.  Never 
would  she  replace  that  dear  lost  angel.  Not  a  month  ago  she 
had  told  her  so,  and  now  she  had  promised  to  become  another 
man's  wife  !  Instead  of  reproving  Beatrice,  she  began  to  cry ; 
whilst  the  child,  still  hiding  her  head  against  Gilbert's  breast, 
sobbed  passionately. 

Poor  little  Beatrice  !  this  is  your  second  great  sorrow.     The 

first  came  on  that  evening,  more  than  a  year  ago,  when  the 

father,  whom  you  kissed  as  he  slept,  left  you  for  six  feet  of  earth 

in  Kensal  Green,  and  never  wakened  to  smile  on  his  child  again. 

3 


50  BEATEIOE. 

The  second  great  grief  is  on  you  now.  The  mother  whom  you 
have  loved  with  such  fond,  though  childish  affection,  ha?  put  you 
by  for  that  hated  Frenchman.  You  nursed  her  up  in  her  little 
selfishness,  you  were  her  little  housemaid,  Beatrice  ;  you  slaved 
like  a  woman,  whilst  she  cried  like  a  child  on  the  sofa  ;  but  it  is 
in  the  destiny  of  love  that  some  must  ever  give  and  rarely  get ; 
that  some  receive  much  and  return  little,  and  thus  early  that** 
destiny  is  yours.  A  few  flattering  words,  the  pressure  of  a  hand, 
three  or  four  looks  of  those  fine  blue  eyes,  the  subtle  hope  of 
living  in  idleness,  with  nothing  to  do,  with  servants  to  wait  upon 
her,  with  fine  clothes  to  wear — ^these  were  mightier  in  your 
mother's  frail  heart  than  your  childish  devotion.  And  it  is  this 
you  feel,  though  you  know  it  not,  and  are  too  ignorant  to  analyze 
your  feelings.  It  is  this  makes  you  cry  out,  "  Poor  papa  !  dear 
papa ! "  Happy  are  the  dead !  Their  sins  are  forgotten  or 
atoned  for.  Their  love  and  their  virtues  alone  are  remembered. 
They  stand  safe  and  smiling  on  the  shores  of  the  other  world, 
beyond  the  reach  of  the  heart's  reproach  or  blame  in  this. 

But  though  bitter  was  Beatrice's  grief,  she  heard  her  mother 
weeping.  She  could  not  resist  that  appeal  for  mercy ;  she  left 
Grilbert,  and  turned  round  to  Mrs.  Gordon.  She  clasped  her 
little  arms  around  her  mother's  neck,  and  kissed  her  eagerly. 
Mrs.  Gordon  sighed,  dried  her  tears,  wiped  away  Beatrice's, 
asked  if  she  were  good,  kissed  her  again,  and  finding  that  she 
was  in  a  strong  fever,  gently  coaxed  her  upstairs. 

Beatrice  made  no  resistance.  Her  mother  undressed  her, 
put  her  in  her  little  cot  as  if  she  were  a  baby  once  more,  and  sat 
with  her  hand  in  hers.  With  the  perverse  and  jealous  instinct 
of  childhood,  Beatrice  long  remained  awake  ;  at  length,  con- 
quered by  fatigue  and  the  violence  of  her  own  emotion,  she  fell 
asleep.  When  she  awoke  it  was  night,  a  candle  was  burning 
on  the  table,  Mrs.  Gordon  was  gone,  and  Gilbert  was  looking  at 
her  from  the  door.  Seeing  her  awake,  he  came  in.  Beatrice 
opened  and  stretched  out  her  arms  to  him,  and  as  he  came  for- 
ward and  bent  over  her,  she  clasped  him  passionately,  and 
again  began  to  weep  and  sob.  He  kissed  her,  unreproved  this 
time,  and  administered  comfort  after  his  own  fashion. 

"  Why  do  you  fret?"  he  asked.  "  We  shall  be  like  brother 
and  sister  now,  and  I  shall  never  go  away — you  were  always 
afraid  that  I  should  go  away — why  are  you  not  glad,  then  ?  " 

Beatrice  could  not  be  glad.  Nevertheless  his  words  com- 
forted her.  She  smiled  through  her  tears,  for  she  loved  Gilbert 
very  much,  and  it  was  very  pleasant  to  think  of  being  always 


BEATRICE.  61 

with  him.  He  said  many  other  kind  things  which  soothed  her 
little  vexed  heart,  and  finally  he  sat  down  by  her  and  told  her  a 
story.     Beatrice  interrupted  him  to  say  : 

'^  You  will  never  go,  will  you?" 

"  Never,  of  course.'* 

"  But  if  I  fall  asleep  you  will  go." 

Gilbert  smiled,  and  said  he  would  not. 

"  Well,  then,  give  me  your  hand." 

Gilbert  gave  his  hand  to  the  capricious  child,  and  went  on 
with  his  tale.  Long  before  he  reached  the  end,  Beatrice's  deep 
and  regular  breathing  betrayed  that  she  had  fallen  asleep  once 
more.  But,  though  Beatrice's  little  fingers  held  him  but  loosely, 
Gilbert  did  not  do  as  Mrs.  Gordon  had  done.  He  stayed  by  her 
patiently  and  faithfully,  not  merely  because  he  was  fond  of 
Beatrice,  but  because  he  would  not  have  deceived  her  even  in 
her  sleep. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

When  Mrs.  Gordon  came  down  from  Beatrice,  she  found 
Mr.  Gervoise  looking  austere,  to  use  the  very  mildest  word. 

"  Behold,  my  love,  the  result  of  your  injudicious  indulgence  ! " 
he  said,  rather  severely. 

Mrs.  Gordon  gave  Mr.  Gervoise  a  surprised  look.  It  seemed 
odd  to  be  already  censured. 

"  Mrs.  Gordon,"  said  the  happy  lover,  "  allow  me  to  ask  why 
the  child  is  in  such  a  way?" 

Mrs.  Gordon  looked  embarrassed. 

"  Why,  you  know,"  she  replied,  "  Beatrice  is  an  only  child, 
and  perhaps  it  might  have  been  better  to  wait  and  prepare  her." 

Mr.  Gervoise  looked  amazed. 

"  Wait!— wha,t  for?"  he  asked. 

Mrs.  Gordon  stared  at  her  future  husband,  who  returned  the 
look  with  great  tranquillity ;  upon  which  the  lady  took  out  her 
pocket-handkerchief  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  Mrs.  Gordon,  may  I  ask  to  know  the  meaning  of  this?" 

Before  Mrs.  Gordon  could  answer  the  question,  which  Mr. 
Gervoise  put  in  a  tone  of  all  but  conjugal  authority,  the  parlour 
door  opened  softly,  and  a  lady,  tall,  pale,  and  faded,  and  attired 
in  a  heavy  black  cloak,  covered  with  snow,  stood  before  the 
astonished  pair. 

"  I  found  the  street  door  ajar,"  she  said,  hesitatingly,  "  and 
so  I  came  in,  for  it  is  snowing  very  fast." 

She  spoke  in  a  thick  and  indistinct  voice — ^by  no  means  a 
pleasing  voice.  Her  appearance  was  common-place,  her  attire 
shabby,  poor,  and  rather  untidy.  Yet  she  was  a  lady,  you  saw 
it  at  a  glance.  She  was,  as  we  said,  tall,  faded,  and  pale,  and 
if  she  had  been  pretty,  it  was  a  long  time  ago.  Beauty  was  for 
ever  erased  from  that  face,  on  which  sorrow  and  many  cares  had 
left  their  lines,  but  which  even  they  could  not  redeem  from  the 
reproach  of  common-place. 

"  It  is  such  a  night!"  she  said,  shaking  the  snow  off  her 


BEATRICE.     ^  53 

cloak  on  the  carpet.  "  I  really  must  have  had  a  wish  to  come 
and  see  you  to  venture  out." 

"  I  am  sure  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,"  stammered 
Mrs.  Gordon. 

She  had  a  vague  remembrance  of  having  seen  this  lady 
before,  but  when  or  where  she  did  not  know. 

'*  Well,  I  think  you  ought  to  be,"  said  the  lady,  taking  a 
chair,  and  sitting  down  by  the  blazing  fire,  to  dry  her  damp 
clothes.  She  spoke  a  little  crossly ;  perhaps  she  thought  her 
welcome  cool.  "  Anna  would  scarcely  let  me  stir,  but  I  said  it 
would  be  too  bad  not  to  come,  and  so  I  came." 

"  Anna  !  "  thought  Mrs.  Gordon,  trying  to  remember. 

"  Oh  !  dear,  what  a  weary  world  it  is  !  "  sighed  the  stranger, 
half  shutting  her  eyes,  and  leaning  back  in  her  chair,  "  it  has 
half  killed  me  to  come  here  from  Hampstead." 

It  was  plain  this  lady  thought  a  great  deal  of  her  trouble, 
and  wished  to  make  much  of  it.  But  who  was  she  ?  Mrs.  Gor- 
don gave  Mr.  Gervoise  an  appealing  look. 

That  gentleman  had  stood  perfectly  still  and  somewhat  in  the 
backgrotmd  since  the  stranger  had  entered  the  room,  and  neither 
Mrs.  Gordon  nor  the  lady  had  minded  him.  But  Beatrice's 
mother  was  startled  to  see  with  how  fixed  and  how  full  a  glance 
of  his  fine  blue  eyes  Mr.  Gervoise  regarded  this  intruder.  Sud- 
denly the  look  changed,  a  smile  passed  across  his  features,  and 
Mrs.  Gordon  saw  him  advance  toward  the  stranger  with  a  bland 
countenance  and  a  courteous  bearing. 

"  He  knows  her  !  "  she  thought  with  rapid  jealousy. 

It  was  plain  Mr.  Gervoise  did  know  the  lady,  and  as  plain 
too  that  the  lady  knew  him.  She  sat  up  straight  in  her  chair, 
staring  at  him  with  open  mouth  and  eyes,  evidently  as  much 
amazed  to  meet  him  then  and  there,  as  Mrs.  Gordon  had  been 
to  see  her  at  all. 

"  I  believe  we  have  met  before,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Gervoise. 

The  stranger  replied  she  believed  so. 

"  In  one  of  the  Midland  Counties,  I  believe?" 

"  Yes,  it  was  in  one  of  the  Midland  Counties.' 

"  My  love,  you  must  introduce  me,"  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  turn- 
ing to  Mrs.  Gordon.  "  I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  this 
lady  before,  but  you  must  introduce  me,  my  love." 

On  hearing  this  endearing  epithet  the  stranger  looked  be- 
wildered. 

"  Am  I  to  understand — ?"  she  said,  looking  from  Mr.  Ger- 
voise to  Mrs.  Gordon, 


54  ,   BEATRICE. 

"  Just  SO,"  he  blandly  replied.  "  I  am  now  step-father  as 
well  as  guardian  to  our  dear  Beatrice  Gordon." 

Blank  dismay  appeared  in  the  stranger's  pale  face.  It  was 
plain  that  this  marriage  was  a  blow  to  her. 

Unable  to  bear  this  any  longer,  Mrs.  Gordon  turned  to  Mr. 
Gervoise,  and  said  in  her  sharpest  tones — 

"  Mr.  Gervoise,  will  you  explain?" 

"  My  dear,  will  you  introduce  me?" 

"  I  think,  Mr.  Gervoise,  you  are  much  better  acquainted 
with  this  lady  than  I  am." 

"  Surely,  Louisa,  you  know  me ! "  cried  the  stranger ; 
"  surely  you  know  Ellinor  Jameson." 

"  No,"  stammered  Mrs.  Gordon,  staring  at  her,  and  seeking 
in  vain  for  some  trace  of  the  blooming  past  in  that  faded  face. 

Miss  Jameson,  who  had  half  risen,  sighed  and  sat  down 
again  in  her  chair — sad  and  subdued. 

"  I  know  I  am  altered,"  she  said,  "  and  my  voice  is  gone 
since  I  had  that  dreadful  sore  throat ;  but  Anna  said  she  was 
sure  you  would  know  me." 

So  this  was  Ellinor  Jameson,  the  belle  of  the  schooL  There 
had  been  some  rivalry  and  no  great  liking  between  them,  and 
Mrs.  Gordon  could  not  imagine  what  brought  her  from  Hamp- 
stead  to  Kensington,  on  this  inclement  evening. 

"  How  did  you  find  me  out?"  she  asked. 

"  Oh !  I  had  such  a  hunt  for  you !  1  came  from  the 
country." 

Before  Mrs.  Gordon  could  put  in  a  word,  and  she  meant  to 
put  in  a  good  many,  for  the  purpose  of  ascertaining  why  Miss 
Jameson  had  been  hunting  for  her,  Mr.  Gervoise  interfered. 

"  Have  you  left  Mrs.  Herring's,  Miss  Jameson?"  he  asked. 

"  I  have  indeed,  and  it  was  on  leaving " 

"  What  an  unpleasant  life  you  must  have  had  there  !  Miss 
Jameson,"  compassionately  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  sitting  down  by 
the  lady's  side,  and  suddenly  growing  confidential. 

Readers  !  do  you  feel  at  a  loss  for  conversation  ?  and  do  you 
wish  to  make  the  other  person  take  the  full  burden  of  the  talk- 
ing? Broach  the  subject  of  that  person's  troubles!  This  in- 
fallible rule  proved  good  with  Miss  Jameson,  as  well  as  with 
most  of  us. 

"  A  governess  never  has  a  very  pleasant  life,"  she  said  with 
some  bitterness,  "  but  Mrs.  Herring  was  too  hard  to  please.  She 
had  such  a  temper,  that  really  I  thought  sometimes  I  must  go 
crazy !  If  it  were  not  for  dear  Anna  I  could  not  have  borne  it 
BO  long." 


BEATEICE.     ^  55 

'^  A  sister,  I  presume,"  said  Mr.  Gervoise. 

"  My  elder  by  ten  years,  and  an  invalid  too.  She  was  quite 
a  mother  to  me  when  I  was  a  girl,  and  of  course  I  now  bear 
with  a  good  deal  for  her  sake.  However,  some  one  told  her 
how  matters  stood,  so  she  wrote  to  me  to  give  up  Mrs.  Herring 
at  once.     I  did,  and  came  up  to  town." 

"  But  Mrs.  Herring  was  liberal  at  least,"  said  Mrs.  Ger- 
voise. 

"  I  earned  thirty  pounds  a  year  with  her." 

"  Thirty  pounds  a  year  for  a  lady  of  your  accomplishments  !  " 
cried  Mr.  Gervoise,  indignant  and  amazed.  "  Why,  Miss  Jame- 
son, I  should  hold  you  cheap  at  eighty  pounds  a  year.  All,  my 
love,"  he  added,  turning  to  Mrs.  Gordon,  "  if  we  could  secure 
Miss  Jameson  for  our  darling  Beatrice,  what  a  blessing  it  would 
be ! " 

If  Miss  Jameson  had  not  been  so  faded  and  so  old-looking, 
Mrs.  Gordon's  dawning  jealousy  would  have  run  wild  at  such  a 
speech  from  her  future  husband.  Even  as  it  was,  she  thought 
him  crazy  to  talk  in  that  way  to  a  worn-out  governess  of  whom 
he  knew  nothing ;  and  securing  her  for  Beatrice  was  more  than 
absurd — it  was  cruel  to  poor  Ellinor,  who  might  be  so  insane  as 
to  believe  him.  Anxious  to  cut  short  all  such  absurdity,  and 
also  to  know  why  Miss  Jameson,  who  had  not  come  near  her  for 
so  many  yeaVs,  had  now  sought  and  foiind  her  out,  Mrs.  Gordon 
said  rather  pointedly,  "  Ellinor,  what  is  it  you  have  to  tell  me? 
For  I  am  sure  you  have  something  to  tell  me." 

"  My  dear  !  "  reprovingly  said  Mr.  Gervoise. 

"  I  tell  you,  Mr.  Gervoise,  I  knoAv  Ellinor  has  something  to 
tell  me — I  see  it  in  her  face." 

"  Do  you — let  me  see  it  too  then." 

And  Mr.  Gervoise,  whose  chair  was  already  very  close  to 
Miss  Jameson's,  drew  it  still  closer,  and  looked  hard  in  her  face. 
In  her  very  eyes  he  looked,  and  as  these  were  still  fine  eyes, 
Mrs.  Gordon's  color  rose.  As  to  that,  so  did  Miss  Jameson's. 
Her  lids  fell  too  ;  she  looked  at  the  fire,  and  seemed  thoroughly 
confused.  -• 

"  I  had  nothing  particular  to  say,"  she  said  at  length. 

"Nothing?"  incredulously  echoed  Mrs.  Gordon. 

Miss  Jameson  looked  deeply  perplexed.  She  glanced  hesitat- 
ingly at  Mr.  Gervoise  ;  he  was  telling  ofii'some  imaginary  account 
on  his  fingers. 

"  Did  I  say  eighty  pounds  a  year,  Miss  Jameson?  "  he  asked 
abruptly. 

"Yes,  I  think  you  did." 


66  BEATEICE. 

"  I  repeat  it  again,  you  are  cheap  at  eighty  pounds." 

"  I  know  I  never  got  what  I  ought  to  have  got,"  said  Miss 
Jameson. 

"  No,  you  have  been  shamefully  imposed  upon  ;  and  indeed 
allow  me  to  request  you  neither  to  advertise  nor  to  answer  any 
advertisement  without  consulting  me." 

Miss  Jameson  colored  with  pleasure  and  excitement,  and 
murmured  her  thanks. 

"  How  long  have  you  left  the  country,  ma'am?  "  asked  Mr. 
Gervoise. 

"  A  fortnight." 

"  And  I  believe  it  is  about  three  months  since  we  met  there, 
is  it  not?" 

He  looked  at  Miss  Jameson,  who  seemed  deeply  perplexed. 

"  Yes,  it  must  be  three  months,"  musingly  continued  Mr. 
Gervoise. 

"  I — I  suppose  so,"  she  replied  in  answer  to  his  inquiring 
look,  but  she  seemed  ill  at  ease. 

"  My  dear,  are  we  going  to  have  some  dinner?"  asked  Mr. 
Gervoise. 

Mrs.  Gordon  trembled  with  passion.  He  wanted  her  to 
leave  the  room,  and  to  remain  alone  with  Miss  Jameson,  but 
that  should  not  be — no,  that  it  should  not.  So  she  merely  rang 
the  bell,  and  when  the  servant  answered  it,  she  gave  her  orders 
to  the  cook  at  the  parlour-door.  Now,  not  a  word  was  spoken 
whilst  her  back  was  turned,  but  something  passed  nevertheless, 
for  when  she  came  back  she  found  Miss  Jameson  looking  pale 
and  frightened,  and  Mr.  Gervoise  flushed  and  smiling, 

"  I  suppose,  ma'am,"  he  said,  "  Mrs.  Herring  told  you  I  had 
important  business  down  in  the  country.  I  have  an  English  son, 
you  know,  and  he  has  lately  come  into  some  property  in  the 
neighborhood." 

Miss  Jameson's  lips  parted  to  say  something ;  but  she  changed 
her  mind  and  was  silent. 

"  I  hope  we  shall  soon  have  dinner,  my  love,"  said  Mr.  Ger- 
voise, who  looked  very  brisk  and  cheerful.  ''  Miss  Jameson 
looks  perished  with  the  cold." 

"  I  think  I  had  better  go,"  said  Miss  Jameson,  "  Anna  will 
be  anxious." 

"  Why  should  she?     She  knows  you  are  here." 

It  was  again  Mr.  Gervoise  who  spoke. 

Mrs.  Gordon  sat  cold  as  marble,  and  neither  looked  at  nor 
addressed  her  visitor. 


BEATEICE.  6T 

Nevertheless,  Miss  Jameson  seemed  unable  to  make  up  her 
mind  to  depart — every  thing  about  her  betokened  confusion  and 
perplexity.  She  had  come  in  calm  and  decided,  but  some  spell 
had  fallen  over  her,  and  she  was  now  the  picture  of  mental  un- 
easiness. 

"  No,  I  think  I  had  better  go,"  she  said  again. 

"  Do  you  really?  "  replied  Mr.  Gervoise,  rising  ;  "  well  then, 
I  shall  see  you  to  the  omnibus.  Kensington  is  a  wild  place, 
ma'am." 

Miss  Jameson  did  not  decline  his  escort,  but,  fastening  again 
her  loosened  cloak,  she  went  up  to  Mrs.  Gordon,  and  bade  her  a 
hesitating  good  night.  Mrs.  Gordon  drew  herself  up,  cold,  of- 
fended, and  jealous,  and  said,  "  Good  night.  Miss  Jameson  ; " 
but  she  did  not  add  "  come  again,"  and,  what  Miss  Jameson 
felt  still  more  keenly,  she  never  asked  after  "  dear  Anna,"  that 
poor  delicate  elder  sister,  for  whom  Miss  Jameson  had  been  toil- 
ing all  these  years. 

A  white  covering  of  snow,  as  yet  unsoiled  by  the  feet  of  pas- 
sengers, lay  on  the  ground,  as  Mr.  Gervoise  and  Miss  Jameson 
left  the  house.  The  way  from  Rosemary  Cottage  to  the  Ken- 
sington Road  was  down  a  quiet  lane  with  green  hedges  and 
gardens  on  either  side.  It  was  quiet  in  the  daytime,  and  on 
this  evening  it  was  utterly  solitary.  Mr.  Gervoise  saw  that  he 
could  speak  safely,  and  he  did  so. 

"  My  dear  madam,"  he  began,  "  let  me  first  assure  you  that 
I  have  no  wish  to  pry  into  any  secret.  Whatever  may  be  your 
•object  in  calling,  I  do  not  wish  to  know  it.  Whatever  may  have 
passed  long  ago,  it  is  no  business  of  mine." 

"  Indeed,  Mr.  Gervoise,"  rather  earnestly  said  Miss  Jame- 
son, "  you  are  mistaken,  I  had  no  secret  to  tell — it  is  anji-hing 
but  a  secret." 

"  Still,  I  would  rather  know  it,"  persisted  Mr.  Gervoise ; 
*'  and  indeed  I  think  it  would  be  better  to  let  Mrs.  Gordon's — 
Mrs.  Gervoise's  mind,  I  mean,  remain  quiet.  I  did  admire 
your  discretion  and  reserve  this  evening ;  I  can  see  you  are  a 
prudent  person,  Miss  Jameson.  Poor  Mrs.  Gervoise  is  in  a 
most  delicate  state  of  health — she  must  not  be  excited  on  any 
account,  either  now  or  at  a  future  time — you  understand  ?  " 

Miss  Jameson  said  she  did,  and  she  added, 

"  Then  you  are  married?" 
•  .     "  Privately,"  replied  Mr.  Gervoise  ;  "  we  are  privately  mar- 
ried.    With  regard  to  yourself,  my  dear  Miss  Jameson,  allow 
me  to  consider  you  engaged  for  my  dear  Beatrice?" 
3* 


58  BEATEICE. 

"  Are  you  in  earnest,  Mr.  Gervoise?" 

"  Quite  in  earnest." 

"  But  I  cannot  believe  in  it ! "  cried  poor  Miss  Jameson, 
stopping  short.  *'  Oh ! "  I  have  been  so  unhappy  with  those 
Herrings,  and  all  for  thirty  pounds  a  year  !  " 

"  I  am  sure  of  it ;  and  I  repeat  it,  I  am  in  earnest ;  and  there 
is  a  difference  between  thirty  pounds  and  eighty  pounds  a  year." 

"  God  bless  you ! "  gasped  Miss  Jameson,  and  she  fairly 
burst  into  tears. 

She  had  fasted  nearly  the  whole  of  that  day — she  was  faint 
and  weary  and  broken  in  spirits,  and  the  touch  of  prosperity  was 
too  much  for  her.  Alas  !  that  magic  wand  cannot  always  heal 
the  ills  that  have  preceded  its  long-deferred  advent. 

"  Mrs.  Gervoise  will  not  consent,"  she  said  after  awhile,  re- 
covering both  her  self-possession  and  her  sad  experience  of  life  ; 
'*  I  came  in  a  friendly  spirit,  the  bearer  as  I  thought " 

"  Just  so,"  interrupted  Mr.  Gervoise,  who  did  not  want  to 
hear  Miss  Jameson's  errand,  even  in  the  solitude  of  the  lane ; 
"just  so — but  you  must  excuse  Mrs.  Gervoise,  How  often  she 
has  mentioned  you  affectionately  to  me — it  was  quite  touching  ! " 

"  Her  welcome  was  very  cool,"  persisted  Miss  Jameson ; 
"  she  did  not  know  me — she  never  inquired  after  poor  Anna — 
she  did  not  tell  me  to  call  again." 

"  My  dear  madam,"  confidentially  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  press- 
ing Miss  Jameson's  arm  against  his  own,  "  Mrs.  Gervoise  is  a 
blessing  I  do  not  hope  to  enjoy  long.  Her  health  is  gone,  her 
mind  is  even  affected.  My  dear  Miss  Jameson,  I  speak  as  if 
you  were  an  old  friend.  You  may  believe  me — 1  have  the  high- 
est medical  authority  for  it— she  has  an  internal  complaint — and 
I  married  her  for  the  sake  of  her  daughter." 

Miss  Jameson  gave  a  little  start ;  Mr.  Gervoise  stopped  short, 
astonished  at  what  he  had  said  ;  but  though  a  cautious  man,  he 
was  subject  to  these  unpleasant  bursts  of  frankness.  But  it  was 
too  late  to  recall  the  words  ;  besides  an  omnibus  was  passing  at 
the  end  of  the  lane,  Mr.  Gervoise  hailed  it,  saw  Miss  Jameson 
in,  and  watched  the  vehicle  bearing  her  away. 

"  She  will  just  do,"  he  thought,  as  he  turned  back  to  Rose- 
mary Cottage. 


fM 


CHAPTER  rX. 

Mr.  Geuvoise  found  Mrs.  Gordon  waiting  for  him  in  silent 
dignity  on  the  sofa. 

"  My  dearest  love,"  he  said,  sinking  down  in  the  chair  Miss 
Jameson  had  left  vacant,  "  is  not  dinner  late  to-day?" 

Now  "  my  dearest  love  "  surely  stands  high  in  the  language 
of  lover  tenderness.  It  is  a  superlative  applied  to  a  gentle  name, 
and  giving  it  both  strength  and  meaning  ;  but  Mrs.  Gordon  heard 
the  tender  inquiry  with  ill-concealed  resentment.  She  knew  that 
Mr.  Gervoise  liked  his  meals  to  be  punctual,  and  she  felt  that 
"  dearest  love,"  was  entirely  subordinate  to  "  is  not  dinner  late 
to-day  ? "  So  feeling,  too,  she  could  return  no  gracious  answer, 
she  was  silent. 

"  My  love,"  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  sitting  up  in  his  chair,  "  I 
am  afraid  you  are  not  attending  to  me." 

There  was  something  in  Mr.  Gervoise's  tone  that  irritated 
Mrs.  Gordon  extremely.  It  implied  authority.  She  looked  up  at 
him  and  replied  coldly. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Gervoise,  I  am  attending  to  you. 
Dinner  is  late,  as  you  say.  I  had  it  delayed  in  consequence  of 
your  going  out  with  Miss  Jameson." 

"  You  did  very  well,  my  dear.  A  very  superior  person  that 
Miss  Jameson.  You  will  be  happy  to  learn  that  I  have  engaged 
her  services  for  Beatrice.  Beatrice  wants  a  governess ;  Miss 
Jameson  will  do." 

"  Without  consulting  me  ! "  said  Mrs.  Gordon  with  sparkling 
eyes. 

*'  My  dearest  love,  am  I  not  Beatrice's  guardian?" 

He  spoke  with  irritating  calmness.  But  he  was  Beatrice's 
.guardian  indeed,  and  Mrs.  Gordon  was  wise  enough  not  to  pur- 
sue the  argument,  to  which  dinner  put  an  end  for  the  time  being. 
Now,  Mr.  Gervoise  was  very  particular  about  dinner.  He  liked 
good  cookery,  and  he  was  not  so  far  anglicized  as  to  admire 
underdone  meat  and  watery  vegetables. 


60  BEATEICE. 

"  This  is  not  fit  to  eat,"  he  said,  pushing  his  plate  away ;  "  I 
must  alter  that.  There  is  a  Monsieur  Panel  who  is  now  disen- 
gaged, a  chef  of  the  first  water.  I  think  I  must  secure  his  ser- 
vices." 

"  A  man-cook  !  "  said  Mrs.  Gordon. 

"  Yes,  my  love,  why  not? " 

^'  A  man-cook !  a  governess  of  eighty  pounds  a  year  for 
Beatrice !  Was  Mr.  G-ervoise  rich  then,  richer  than  she  had 
thought !  "  Mrs.  Gordon  was  not  mercenary,  but  the  thought 
softened  her  considerably.  If  Mr.  Gervoise  really  was  so  very 
rich,  his  affection  for  her,  poor  as  he  knew  her  to  be,  was  assur- 
edly generous  and  disinterested.  She  forgot  Miss  Jameson,  and 
only  thought  and  felt  that  to  be  the  wife  of  a  rich  and  kind  hus- 
band was  a  very  pleasant  thing  after  all. 

"I  suppose  Monsieur  Panel  is  very  clever?"  she  said. 

"He  is  more  than  clever,  he  is  admirable.  A  wonderful 
mai^ — a  genius,  my  dear  !  " 

"And  you  really  mean  to  have  him?  " 

"  Yes,  my  love.  I  need  not  tell  you  that  we  are  not  going 
to  remain  at  Rosemary  Cottage.  I  am  going  to  take  a  house  in 
Piccadilly,  facing  the  Green  Park.     I  like  Piccadilly,  do  you  ?  " 

Mrs.  Gordon's  head  felt  in  a  whirl. 

A  house  in  Piccadilly,  a  man-cook,  a  governess  !  Then  she 
supposed  he  meant  to  keep  his  carriage.  But  she  did  not  say 
so.  She  said  nothing.  She  was  afraid  of  committing  herself 
by  some  indiscreet  remark,  and  she  would  not  let  Mr.  Gervoise 
suspect  her  secret  satisfaction.  But  he  saw  it,  nevertheless,  for 
there  was  very  little  that  escaped  his  eye,  and  he  half  smiled  to 
behold  her  puerile  attempt  at  concealment.  As  if  he  did  not 
know  the  meaning  of  the  raised  colour  and  the  kindling  look, 
and  the  exulting  smile  ! 

"  My  love,"  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  when  the  servant  had  re- 
moved the  cloth,  "  I  am  anxious  about  Beatrice." 

Mrs.  Gordon  looked  uneasy,  but  said  nothing.  Mr.- Gervoise 
pursued : 

"  She  is  a  very  susceptible  child,  and  it  is  very  plain  our 
marriage  pains  her.     Why  grieve  her  uselessly  ?  " 

He  seemed  to  expect  an  answer  to  this,  but  Mrs.  Gordon 
gave  him  none.  ^ 

"  Why  grieve  her  uselessly,  poor  little  dear,"  resumed  Mr. 
Gervoise,  "by  compelling  her  to  behold  our  wedding,  for  in- 
stance? Why  not  marry  quietly  and  privately  one  of  these 
days  ?     It  would  spare  her,  poor  little  love  !  " 


BEATRICE.  61 

Still  Mrs.  Gordon  did  not  reply,  but  Mr.  Gervoise  could  see 
she  was  not  very  averse  to  this  plan.  She  secretly  dreaded 
Beatrice's  stormy  tears  and  entreaties,  Mr.  Gervoise's  sugges- 
tion afforded  a  sort  of  escape.  Beatrice  riiust  submit,  once  the 
thing  was  done. 

"  Allow  me  to  argue  the  matter  with  you,"  said  Mr.  Ger- 
voise, sitting  down  by  her  on  the  sofa.     Mr.  Gervoise's  line  of 
argument  was  made  up  of  so  many  subtle  threads  that  we  must 
not  attempt  to  follow  it  out ;  but  what  with  a  journey  which 
he  must  take  the  next  day,  and  what  with  his  fear  of  Beatrice's 
having  a  second  attack,  and  what  with  his  amazement  to  learn 
that  Miss  Jameson  was  not  fifty-five,  he  argued  to  such  purpose 
,that  he  and  Mrs.  Gordon  went  out  early  together  the  next  morn- 
%^^ing,  and  that  when  they  came  back  to  breakfast  Mrs.  Gordon 
Jjwas  no  more,  and  Mrs.  Gervoise  filled  the  chair  of  that  defunct 
^lady. 

Immediately  after  breakfast,  the  happy  bridegroom  went  off 
^in  a  cab,  and  Mrs.  Gervoise  rather  remorsefully  devoted  her- 
self to  the  unconscious  Beatrice.      The  child  was  still  feverish, 
^  and  by  her  half-pettish,  half-passionate  entreaties,  "  Don't  marry 
him,  mamma,  don't,"  justified  the  prudence  of  the  course  Mr. 
X^  Gervoise  had  adopted. 

"  Ah  !  what  a  wedding-day  ! "  thought  Mrs.  Gervoise,  who 
(N-»  felt  very  much  worried.     For  she  remembered  another  wedding- 
day  very  different  from  this,  a  day  of  sunshine  and  love,  when  a 
'  girl  of  eighteen  and  a  man  of  twenty-five  had  thought  themselves 
V*^ blest  among  their  kind.     But  it  was  hard,  very  hard,  to  think 
of  the  first  husband  on  the  day  when  she  had  taken  the  second, 
so  Mrs.  Gervoise  made  a  desperate  effort  to  forget,  and  won- 
dered if  Beatrice  would  get  over  it,  and  where  Mr.  Gervoise 
was  gone  to  ;  but  even  this  latter  thought  would  take  no  hold  on 
her  mind ;  still  she  went  back  to  the  little  church  in  Scotland, 
where  she  was  married,  with  friends  around  her,  and  she  con- 
trasted that  bright  cheerful  ceremony  with  the  morning's  dull 
secret  work.  "  I  ought  to  have  known  better,"  she  thought  rather 
indignantly ;  "  why  should  I  be  afraid  of  my  own  child !     I 
ought  to  have  got  married  openly,  and  not  kept  it  a  secret. 

But  for  all  that  she  kept  it  a  secret  still,  and  though  the  day 
passed  and  night  came,  she  did  not  tell  Beatrice,  who  got  up  to 
dine,  but,  feeling  tired,  asked  to  go  to  bed  again  as  soon  as  the 
meal  was  over.  She  was  fast  asleep,  and  her  mother  was  sitting 
by  her,  thinking  again  that  this  was  a  very  dreary  wedding-day, 
when  she  suddenly  heard  Mr.  Gervoise's  voice  below.     She  lis- 


62  •  BEATRICE. 

tened  ;  yes,  it  was  he,  and  he  was  asking  Gilbert  where  she  was. 
Mrs.  Gervoise  went  down  rather  flurried  and  rather  surprised, 
for  he  was  to  have  been  a  week  away,  and  found  her  husband  in 
the  parlour,  overflowing  with  smiles  and  good-humour. 

"  You  are  amazed,"  he  said  blandly  ;  "  and  so  am  I — ^but  I 
had  not  got  beyond  three  stations  before  I  was  obliged  to  turn 
back,  and  so,  my  love,  I  came  straight  to  you.  Do  not  trouble 
about  me.  I  had  a  capital  dinner  in  town.  And  how  is 
Beatrice  ?  " 

"  Beatrice  is  much  better." 

"  Sweet  little  dear.     Have  you  told  her  ?  " 

"  Not  yet." 

"  Just  so — just  so.  I  have  just  told  Gilbert,  he  will  break  it 
to  her ;  and  now,  my  love,  I  have  got  something  for  you." 

He  went  and  sat  down  by  her,  and  he  looked  so  pleasant  and 
so  fond  that  Mrs.  Gervoise,  we  cannot  deny  it,  expected  a 
diamond  at  the  very  least,  to  be  laid  on  her  lap  by  the  happy 
bridegroom.  Mr.  Gervoise  may  have  read  the  meaning  of  her 
flushed  face  ;  at  all  events,  he  was  smiling  outright  when  he  took 
a  copy  of  the  Times  out  of  his  pocket  and  laid  it  before  her. 
Mrs.  Gervoise  could  scarcely  conceal  her  disappointment. 

''  Well,  what  is  that  for?"  she  said  a  little  crossly. 

"  Look  at  the  marriages,  my  dear." 

Mrs.  Gervoise  took  the  supplement  sheet  and  glanced  im- 
patiently over  it ;  but  even  as  she  looked  she  turned  ghastly  pale, 
and,  dropping  the  paper,  gave  her  husband  a  scared  look. 

"  My  dear,  what  is  the  matter?"  he  cried  with  an  alarmed 
start. 

Mrs.  Gervoise  did  not  answer,  but  she  clenched  her  hands, 
and  bit  her  nether  lip. 

"  But  what  is  it? "  he  persisted.  "  You  make  me  feel  quite 
anxious.     My  dear  love,  speak,  I  entreat  you  ! " 

Mrs.  Gervoise  turned  to  her  husband  and  looked  at  him  with 
a  cold,  hard  look ;  and  with  a  cold,  hard,  and  very  bitter  voice, 
she  said,  whilst  her  forefinger  pointed  to  the  paper  on  the  floor, 
"  Look  and  see,  Mr.  Gervoise." 

Mr.  Gervoise  looked  the  picture  of  astonishment  and  dismay. 

"  My  dear,  will  you  explain  ?  "  he  began. 

"  Look  and  see,"  she  interrupted  harshly,  and  she  drew  as 
far  away  from  him  as  the  length  of  the  sofa  allowed. 

Seeing  he  could  extract  nothing  further  from  her,  Mr.  Ger- 
voise, stiU  bewildered  and  amazed,  at  length  picked  up  the  paper 
and  glanced  over  it  in  his  turn.     To  his  annoyance,  as  he  said 


BEATRICE.  63 

afterwards,  he  saw  neither  his  name  nor  Mrs.  Gervoise's  in  the 
marriage  list  of  the  second  edition  of  the  Times  ;  but  on  a  line 
with  that  important  part  of  the  supplement,  he  saw  a  lengthy  ad- 
vertisement, headed,  "  Kichard  Gordon."  Mr.  Gervoise  read 
it,  and  so  may  we  : — 

"  Richard  Gordon,  formerly  of  ,  in  the  county  of 

,  son  of  James  Gordon  of ,  aforesaid,  and  of  Charlotte 

Mary,  his  wife.  Information  wanted  with  regard  to  the  said 
Richard  Gordon.  The  said  Richard  Gordon,  if  now  living,  is 
entitled,  under  the  will  of  the  late  Mr.  Carnoosie,  to  the  manor- 
house  and  estate  of  Carnoosie.  If  the  said  Richard  Gordon  will 
communicate  with  the  undersigned,  he  may  immediately  be  put 
in  possession.  If  he  died  before  the  6th  of  March,  18 — ,  leaving 
issue  then  living,  such  issue  take  the  aforesaid  manor-house  and 
estate.  Information  as  to  the  said  Richard  Gordon  (and  if  dead, 
as  to  the  place  and  date  of  his  death,  and  whether  married  and 
left  any  child,  or  children)  may  be  communicated  to  the  under- 
signed, and  will  be  thankfully  received.  Dated  this  21st  day  of 
March,  18 — . 

"  C.  William  Corking, 

Solicitor,  of . 

W.  &  B.  Sheringhaji, 

Solicitors  of ." 

"  Good  heavens ! "  exclaimed  Mr.  Gervoise,  dropping  the 
paper,  "  is  Mr.  Carnoosie  dead?" 

"  You  knew  him?"  said  his  wife. 

"  Knew  him !  I  spent  a  week  at  Carnoosie  with  him  three 
months  ago.  Why,  his  children  must  be  dead  too  !  and  he  had 
two,  poor  man  !     I  am  quite  shocked  !  " 

Mrs.  Gervoise  twitched  her  fingers  nervously ;  but  she  could 
not  trust  herself  with  speaking. 

"  Our  dear  Beatrice  is  now  a  rich  woman,"  said  Mr.  Ger- 
voise, with  a  sigh  for  the  dead  and  a  gentle  gleam  of  satisfaction 
for  the  living.     "  Poor  little  darling  !  " 

"  Mr.  Gervoise,  how  long  have  you  known  this?  "  asked  his 
wife. 

"  Something  like  five  minutes,  my  dear." 

He  looked  hard  at  her  from  behind  his  glasses,  and  his  eye 
said,  ''  Deny  it,  if  you  dare  ! "  She  did  not  do  so.  Her  eyes 
sought  the  carpet.  Thoughts  of  desperate  and  useless  anger 
might  fill  hef  heart,  but  did  not  venture  to  rise  to  her  lips. 

"  I  repeat  it,  Beatrice  is  a  rich  woman,"  emphatically  said 
Mr.  Gervoise.     "  Carnoosie  is  a  noble  place.     The  house  is 


64  .  BEATEICE. 

commodious  ;  not  a  palace,  you  know,  my  dear,  but  a  large^old 
English  house.  The  timber  is  splendid.  The  wines  are  first- 
rate  ;  the  pictures — I  hope  Mr.  Carnoosie  has  not  disposed  of 
them — are  choice.     It  is  a  noble  place  !  " 

She  looked  at  him  bitterly  ;  eagerly  she  read  his  face.  What 
exultation  in  that  look !  What  unctuous  satisfaction  in  that 
smile ! 

"  He  married  me  for  this,"  she  thought  desperately  ;  "  for  the 
wines,  for  the  house,  for  the  timber,  the  pictures,  and  the  cook ! 
He  married  me  for  this  !  " 

Well,  perhaps  he  did,  Mrs.  Gervoise.  But  what  have  you 
married  him  for?  For  nothing  to  do,  for  servants,  and  fine  ap- 
parel, and  comfort,  and  the  rearing  of  your  child.  It  was  a  bar- 
gain ;  a  sorry  one  on  your  part,  a  capital  one  on  his — the  best 
bargain  he  ever  made.  His  first  marriage,  which  brought  him  in 
the  Chateau  of  Verville  for  his  life  ;  his  second  marriage,  which 
gave  him  a  pleasant  cottage  near  Carnoosie  during  his  younger 
son's  minority,  were  nothing  to  this. 

"My  love,"  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  seemingly  quite  unconscious 
of  the  turn  Mrs.  Gervoise' s  thoughts  were  taking,  "  where  is  the 
child — where  is  our  Beatrice  ?  " 

"  In  bed,"  was  his  wife's  short  reply. 

"Then  we  must  call  her  up.  Beatrice  must  come  down  and 
learn  the  news." 

"  I  think,  Mr.  Gervoise,  the  news  will  keep — ^they  have  kept 
some  time." 

"  My  dear,  what  would  Beatrice  say  later  if  she  learned  that  I 
had  withheld  this  precious  intelligence  even  one  night?  She 
must  come  down  ! " 

Mrs.  Gervoise  did  not  answer.  Mr.  Gervoise  rang  the  bell, 
and  gave  his  directions  to  the  maid  who  answered  it.  In  a  few 
minutes  the  door  opened  again,  and  Beatrice,  wrapped  in  a  large 
plaid  shawl,  beneath  the  fringe  of  which  appeared  the  white  edge 
of  her  night-dress,  scarcely  covering  her  little  bare  feet,  was 
brought  into  the  room.  She  lay  half  awake  in  the  servant's 
arms,  but  her  dark  eyes  were  bright  as  diamonds,  and  her  cheeks 
had  a  rosy  flush.  Her  little  nightcap  had  got  on  one  side,  and 
her  black  curls  peeped  out  from  under  it.  The  servant  put  her 
down  on  a  high  chair,  and  there  Beatrice  remained  solemnly  sit- 
ting, with  her  feet  dangling  down,  and  her  dark  eyes  slowly 
wakening  to  intelligence  and  thought. 

"  My  love,"  began  Mr.  Gervoise. 

"Where  is  Gilbert?"  interrupted  Beatrice.  "I  want  Gil- 
bert." 


BEATEICE.  65 

"Mary,  tell  Gilbert  to  come  directly,"  promptly  said  Mr. 
Gervoise. 

Gilbert,  who  was  reading  alone  in  the  back  parlour,  came  out 
at  Mary's  bidding,  and,  with  a  half-smile,  went  and  stood  by 
Beatrice's  chair. 

When  the  door  had  closed  on  the  servant-girl,  Mr.  Gervoise 
resumed  : 

"  My  love,  I  have  news  for  you !  Mr.  Camoosie  is  dead. 
Mr.  Carnoosie's  children  preceded  him  to  the  grave — so  uncer- 
tain is  human  life — and  you  are  now  the  mistress  of  the  manor- 
house  and  estate  of  Camoosie." 

We  are  sorry  to  record  it,  but  to  the  moral  and  pathetic  part 
of  this  speech  Beatrice  paid  little  or  no  attention  ;  and,  so  strong 
and  sure  a  hold  does  mammon  take,  even  on  innocent,  youthful 
minds,  her  eyes  actually  sparkled  on  hearing  that  she  owned  the 
old  red  house,  with  the  four  fountains,  and  the  noble  trees,  which 
had  haunted  her  childish  dreams. 

"  Yes,"  repeated  Mr.  Gervoise,  with  due  emphasis,  "  you, 
Beatrice  Gordon,  are  the  mistress  of  Camoosie." 

The  young  queen,  whose  sovereignty  was  thus  proclaimed, 
clapped  her  hands  with  glee,  and  jumped  down  on  the  carpet. 
The  shawl  fell  from  her,  and  she  stood  in  her  white  robe,  like 
any  little  antique  priestess.  Her  first  impulse  was  a  true  royal 
one. 

"  Gilbert,"  she  cried  impetuously,  "  what  shall  I  give  you?" 

Gilbert  laughed. 

"  Will  you  have  a  tree?"  cried  Beatrice.  "  I  shall  give  you 
the  biggest ! " 

"  Very  touching — very  affecting ! "  said  Mr.  Gervoise, 
"  But,  bless  me  ! "  he  cried,  with  a  start,  "  that  child  might  take 
cold.  Gilbert,  put  that  shawl  around  her,  and  run  for  her  slip- 
pers ! " 

Mr.  Gervoise  spoke  with  unfeigned  anxiety.  What  if  that 
precious  child  should  take  cold  and  cough  !  What  if  the  cough 
should  settle  on  her  lungs,  and  consumption  carry  her  off  in  her 
bloom  !  Gilbert  at  once  put  the  shawl  around  Beatrice,  and 
went  for  Beatrice's  slippers.  Now  Beatrice  had  another  of  the 
royal  instincts — she  liked  being  waited  upon.  When  Gilbert 
Came  back  with  a  pair  of  warm  felt  shoes,  she  gravely  held  out 
one  foot  to  be  shod,  then  the  other,  and  Gilbert,  kneeling  on  the 
floor,  as  gravely  put  her  shoes  on,  and  tied  the  strings,  demurely 
looking  in  Beatrice's  face  all  the  time. 
•     "  My  dear  Beatrice,"  affectionately  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  "  I 


66  BEATEIOE. 

called  you  up  to  hear  the  great  tidings,  and^now,  for  the  sake  of 
your  health,  allow  me  to  advise  you  to  go  back  to  bed." 

It  was  lucky  that  the  advice  suited  Beatrice,  but  it  so  hap- 
pened that  it  did  suit  her,  so  she  made  no  objection,  until  Mr. 
Gervoise  added : 

"  Mary  shall  carry  you  upstairs." 

Upon  which,  stamping  her  little  feet,  Beatrice  cried  vehe- 
mently : 

"  I  will  not  let  Mary  carry  me  up  !  Gilbert  shall  carry  me 
up!" 

"  Certainly,"  said  Mr.  Gervoise.  "  Gilbert,  carry  Miss 
Gordon  upstairs." 

Nothing  loth,  Gilbert  obeyed,  and  Beatrice  went  upstairs  on 
his  back. 

"  My  love,"  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  squeezing  his  wife's  hand, 
*'  I  think  we  may  safely  predict  what  the  future  of  these  children 
will  be." 

Mrs.  Gervoise  did  not  answer.  She  was  very  pale,  and  she 
felt  bitterly  unhappy.  Beatrice's  first  thought  on  learning  that 
she  was  mistress  of  Carnoosie  had  not  been  for  her  mother,  but 
for  Gilbert.  She  had  wounded  her  child's  heart,  and  uncon- 
sciously her  child's  heart  was  turning  from  her.  Oh  I  if  she  had 
known  what  she  knew  now,  she  would  have  said  "No"  at  the 
very  foot  of  the  altar. 

If  ever  morning's  work  was  repented  ere  the  day  was  done, 
it  was  this. 


^n 


CHAPTER  X. 

Mb.  Carnoosie*s  will  surprised  everyone,  and  most  of  all 
the  two  persons  who  thought  themselves  best  acquainted  with 
its  contents.  It  was  exactly  like  the  duplicate  in  Mr.  Gervoise's 
possession,  with  the  exception  of  three  explanatory  codicils,  which 
rather  altered  some  of  its  main  features.  By  the  first  of  these 
codicils  Mr.  Carnoosie  appointed  Mr.  Kaby,  who  was  travelling, 
poor  man,  unconscious  of  his  fate,  to  be  Mr.  Gervoise's  fellow 
trustee.  By  the  second  he  revoked  Mrs.  Gordon's  jointure,  and 
every  legacy  he  had  made  in  favour  of  his  servants  and  depend- 
ants ;  and  by  the  third  he  tied  up  the  property,  and  provided  for 
the  emergency  of  Mr.  Gordon's  decease,  and  even  of  the  decease 
of  Mr.  Gordon's  childless  issue,  in  a  manner  which  Mr.  Gervoise 
did  not  scruple  to  call  arbitrary  and  foolish. 

The  will  was  so  worded,  however,  that  Richard  Gordon,  and 
failing  him  his  children,  came  into  the  Carnoosie  property  without 
opposition ;  that  Mr.  Gervoise's  trusteeship  was  disputed  by  no 
one  ;  and  that,  as  Beatrice's  guardian,  he  resolved  to  take  up  his 
residence  in  Carnoosie  until  that  young  lady  became  of  age  ;  and 
as  she  was  now  between  eight  and  nine,  Mr.  Gervoise  could  be 
said  to  have  a  pretty  long  lease  of  a  very  pleasant  abode,  and  of 
rather  a  pleasant  life.  ^ 

The  satisfaction  with  which  the  worthy  gentleman  viewed  the 
subject  before  him  was  not  shared  by  Mrs.  Scot,  now  a  dependant 
on  his  kindness  ;  and  it  was  with  secret  wrath  antl  irritation  that 
this  lady  sat  in  her  room  in  Carnoosie  waiting  for  the  arrival  of 
her  young  mistress. 

It  was  a  pleasant  room,  one  of  the  most  comfortable  in  Car- 
noosie ;  for  comfort  was  the  rule  of  her  life,  and  this  room  looked 
made  for  long  hours  of  laborious  repose.  The  bureau  was  ample  ; 
here  could  be  kept  the  accounts  of  generations  of  Carnoosies. 
The  heavy  window  curtains  let  in  the  green  light  from  the  garden  ; 
it  was  the  best  thing  no  doubt  for  Mrs.  Scot's  eyes,  fatigued  with 
casting  up  figures.     The  high  leather  chair,  with  its  broad  arms, 


68  BEATRICE. 

was  also  the  best  comforter  for  a  wearied  back.  The  very  foot- 
stool— there  was  but  one — ^looked  inviting,  as  the  carpet  felt 
pleasant  to  the  feet ;  but  though  this  room  had  long  been  hers, 
and  though  Mr.  Gervoise  had  written  that  morning  to  inform 
her  that  it  was  Miss  Beatrice  Gordon's  pleasure  that  she  should 
keep  her  present  situation,  Mrs.  Scot  was  gloomy  and  dissatisfied. 

The  very  best  of  us  find  it  hard  to  be  cheated  and  deceived, 
and  Mrs.  Scot  was  by  no  means  one  of  the  best.  The  late  Mr. 
Carnoosie  and  her  own  hopes  had  deluded  her  in  the  past,  and 
shamefully  had  Mr.  Gervoise  cheated  her  in  the  present.  She 
had  not  bargained  to  be  his  servant.  Where  was  that  Mr.  Gor- 
don about  whom  he  had  so  pertinaciously  plagued  her  master  ? 
It  would  have  been  something  to  be  under  one  of  the  old  stock, 
and  not  at  the  beck  of  that  wily  Frenchman  who  had  cunningly 
married  the  poor  widow.  Cordially  did  Mrs.  Scot  dislike  him 
for  his  perfidy,  and  dislike  and  contempt  mingled  in  her  feel- 
ings towards  the  unknown  mistress  of  Carnoosie — a  mistress 
who  had  not  reached  her  teens ;  that  was  indeed  something 
to  boast  of !  Ah !  if  Mr.  Carnoosie  could  see  it  from  his 
grave,  if  he  could  behold  that  simple  Mr.  Gervoise  coming 
down  to  take  possession,  and  that  little  chit  of  a  girl  lord- 
ing it  in  that  mansion  which  he  had  been  so  anxious  to  secure 
to  male  blood,  what  a  just  judgment  it  would  be  upon  him  in  the 
other  world  for  his  falsehood  to  her  in  this  !  But  the  other  world 
was  one  of  those  subjects  about  which  Mrs.  Scot  had  strong 
doubts.  There  are  more  practical  atheists  than  England  deems 
of  in  her  bosom.  They  do  not  trouble  themselves  about  pantheism, 
and  a  first  cause,  and  the  great  mystery  that  lies  at  the  root  of 
creation ;  but  they  callously  deny  belief  to  all  the  eye  sees  not, 
and  scorn  with  cold  and  bitter  scorn  the  tender  and  lovely  mys- 
teries of  faith.  Thus  the  comfort  of  thinking  Mr.  Carnoosie 
punished  after  his  death  was  denied  to  Mrs.  Scot,  and  she  was 
only  sure  of  two  things — ^her  wrongs,  and  her  hatred  of  the 
wronger. 

But,  as  we  say,  she  sat  in  her  room  waiting.  Daylight  faded 
from  the  sky,  evening  set  in,  Mrs.  Scot's  lamp  was  brought  to 
her,  and  with  it  her  dinner — Mrs.  Scot  always  dined  alone — and 
still  there  was  no  token  of  Mr.  Gervoise's  coming.  At  length, 
just  as  her  meal  was  over,  carriage  wheels  were  heard  along 
the  avenue.  Hastily  Mrs.  Scot  went  forth,  and  at  the  head  of 
the  steps,  surrounded  by  the  servants  of  the  establishment,  she 
received  the  travellers.  Mr.  Gervoise  came  first,  bearing  in  his 
arms  a  precious  burden,  no  less  than  Beatrice  Gordon,  fast  asleep 


BEATRICE.  69 

with  fatigue.  Near  him  stood  his  wife,  with  a  wearied  air. 
Miss  Jameson,  Gilbert,  and  two  female  servants  brought  up  the 
rear. 

"Your  mistress,  my  friends!"  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  in  his 
grand  way,  thus  introducing  the  sleeping  Beatrice  to  her  retain- 
ers. The  retainers,  who  were  of  the  homely  kind,  and  not  much 
used  to  introduction  of  that  sort,  stared  and  looked  foolish,  and 
were  mute. 

"Mrs.  Scot,  is  Miss  Gordon's  room  ready?"  asked  Mr. 
Gervoise. 

"  It  is,  sir." 

"  Please  to  lead  the  way." 

Mrs.  Scot  took  them  up-stairs  to  a  room  on  the  first  floor.  It 
was  a  large,  stately  apartment ;  but  Mrs.  Gervoise  thought  it 
dismal,  and  her  heart  fell  as  she  entered  it.  Having  carefully 
deposited  the  sleeping  Beatrice  on  the  very  centre  of  the  large, 
square,  four-posted  bed,  Mr.  Gervoise  forraally  surrendered  her 
to  the  care  of  her  maid,  and  to  the  superintendence  of  Miss 
Jameson,  and  politely  requesting  his  wife  to  accompany  him,  he 
withdrew,  merely  hinting  to  Mrs.  Scot  that  she  would  oblige  him 
by  taking  care  of  Gilbert.  As  they  passed  arm-in-arm  through 
suites  of  rooms,  grand,  but,  as  Mrs.  Gervoise  felt,  formal  and 
dreary,  preceded  by  a  couple  of  servants  bearing  lights,  Mr. 
Gervoise's  blue  eyes  lit  with  triumph,  and  his  footstep  had  an 
elastic  tread  which  did  not  escape  his  wife's  ear.  She  thought 
him  triumphant,  and  so  he  was  ;  but  even  she  could  not  know  or 
imagine  how  that  triumph  had  been  reared.  She  by  no  means 
shared  his  exultation,  as  they  now  passed  through  the  rooms  of 
Carnoosie.  Mrs.  Gervoise  was  of  the  middle  class,  and  she  had 
none  of  the  tastes  of  grandeur.  Large  houses,  wide  rooms,  a 
country  residence,  half  frightened,  and  decidedly  wearied  her. 
She  disliked  Carnoosie  from  the  first,  and  longed,  with  the  long- 
ing of  one  born  within  the  sound  of  Bow  bells,  for  London,  and 
its  theatres,  and  parties,  and  pleasures.  But  as  she  looked  at  her 
husband,  she  felt  the  dreary  certainty  that  these  were  for  ever 
lost  to  her.  Mr.  Gervoise  was  of  the  middle  class  too,  but  he 
had  an  ambitious  turn.  He  liked  mansions,  and  the  solitary  state 
of  a  country  life  ;  and  he  had  lost  his  heart  to  Carnoosie  from 
the  very  first  moment  he  had  seen  it — an  old  red  mansion  sur- 
rounded by  majestic  trees. 

"  My  love,"  he  said  to  his  wife,  when  the  servants  had  shown 
them  to  their  own  apartment,  "  do  you  not  think  that  Carnoosie 
is  very  fine?" 


70  BEATRICE. 

"  It  is  dreary,"  said  Mrs.  Gervoise,  with  a  sigh. 

"  Dreary  !  It  is  a  noble  place  !  Such  pictures  !  you  must 
see  them  to-morrow.  The  trees,  too,  and  the  wines  !  My  love, 
let  me  never  hear  you  call  it  dreary." 

Mrs.  Gervoise,  who  was  not  sure  that  she  could  call  her  soul 
her  own,  did  not  venture  to  say  a  word. 

Mr.  Gervoise  stretched  himself  in  a  vast  arm-chair,  rang  the 
bell,  and  asked  for  a  bottle  of  the  old  Burgundy — Clos-Vougeot, 
he  took  care  to  inform  the  servant  who  transmitted  the  order  to 
the  butler.  Presently  a  bottle  of  the  precious  vintage,  fit  for 
emperors  and  kings,  was  brought  up,  with  a  couple  of  glasses, 
and  a  plateful  of  biscuits.  Mr.  Gervoise  poured  himself  out  a 
glass  of  wine,  sipped  it  slowly,  and  thought :      , 

"  I  have  got  into  Carnoosie  ;  well  and  good  !  Let  the  child 
but  live — and  she  must  live — I  am  sure  of  the  place  for  twelve 
good  years  at  the  least ;  but,  indeed,  I  may  say  for  life  ;  for,  of 
course,  she  will  marry  Gilbert." 

Some  have  been  called  wise  in  their  generation — we  know 
when  and  how.     Of  these  Mr.  Gervoise  was  surely  one. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

The  apple-trees  were  in  full  bloom.  Every  wide-stretching 
bough  was  laden  with  rich  thict  clustering  rosy  blossoms.  The 
bright  sun  of  spring,  more  bright  than  genial,  a  sun  tempered  by 
cool  breezes,  filled  the  green  orchard  of  Carnoosie — green  below, 
for  earth  had  put  on  her  covering  of  first  fresh  verdure  ;  white 
and  pink  above,  for  the  fruit-trees  were  more  rich  in  blossom 
than  in  foliage  ;  a  dome  of  the  blue  sky  inclosed  all,  and  finished 
the  great  picture,  beautiful  and  fresh,  but  beyond  the  painter's 
art.  Who  can  paint  air  and  delicious  sounds  of  wakening  life, 
and  breezes  laden  with  sweetness,  and  waving  grass,  and  the  first 
promises  of  spring,  as  she  comes  down  to  us,  her  lap  full  of  early 
flowers,  and  the  hope  of  a  long  summer  and  a  wealthy  autumn 
in  her  mien ! 

Pleasant  and  wide  was  the  orchard  of  Carnoosie.  The  trees 
met  in  a  long  green  arcade,  ending  in  a  gay  vista  of  the  flower- 
garden,  and  of  red  Carnoosie,  an  old  brick  mansion,  which  look- 
ed gorgeous  and  Venetian  when  the  setting  sun  shed  a  crimson 
glow  athwart  its  many-windowed  front.  '^ 

A  cheerful  dwelling  was  Carnoosie.  There  were  stately 
trees  in  the  grounds  around  it,  oaks,  elms,  and  beeches,  of  mighty 
size  and  majestic  breadth,  that  met  the  adjoining  forest,  of  which 
they  had  once  formed  part,  and  to  which  they  could  still  claim 
kin,  for  no  stain  of  degeneracy  had  reached  them,  but  they  had 
been  kept  at  a  safe  distance  from  the  house.  It  stood  on  a  rise 
of  ground,  surrounded  by  a  broad,  cheerful  terrace,  with  a  balus- 
trade and  stone  vases,  and  looking  over  four  gay  and  sunny 
parterres  full  of  flowers.  In  the  centre  of  each  parterre  played 
a  bright  fountain,  with  its  waters  for  ever  glancing  and  dancing 
in  the  sun. 

These  four  un-English,  Italian  fountains  were  the  great  fea- 
ture of  Carnoosie,  its  distinctive  line  of  separation  from  any 
other  manorial  dwelling  far  or  near.     Some  people  did  not  like 


72  BEATRICE. 

them,  and  thought  that  Carnoosie  was  a  bare  and  desolate  hous 
after  all,  and  perhaps  it  looked  such  when  you  stood  close  to  it^ 
on  a  bleak  winter's  day,  with  the  keen  wind  blowing  stormily 
around  it,  or  the  dull  white  snow  lying  in  a  dreary  pall  on  the 
four  parterres,  and  icicles  clinging  to  the  slender  stem  rising  from 
the  centre  of  the  stone  basins  ;  but  in  spring  time,  and  seen  from 
the  orchard,  with  the  sun  shining  upon  it,  the  tall  trees  of  the 
forest  forming  a  background  to  its  bright  red  walls,  and  the  gay 
colors  of  the  flowers  blending  in  one  harmonious  tint,  and  the 
white  vases  gleaming  through  the  blue  air,  and  the  clear  waters 
of  the  fountains  dancing  up  in  the  morning  light,  Carnoosie  look- 
ed as  cheerful  a  dwelling  as  mortal  eye  ever  saw. 

So  thought  the  little  mistress  of  Carnoosie,  as  she  sat  at  the 
foot  of  an  old  apple-tree,  and  looked  at  the  house  through  her 
half-shut  eyes.  She  had  taken  possession  a  week,  and  been  left, 
with  Gilbert,  to  the  care  of  Miss  Jameson,  whilst  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Gervoise  went  to  Scotland,  there  to  transact  some  business  which 
the  late  Richard  Gordon  had  left  unfinished. 

The  Scotch  Gordons  were  a  branch  of  the  Carnoosies,  and 
the  Carnoosies  had  come  in  with  Mary  Stuart's  son,  and  given 
their  barbarous  Scotch  name  to  the  estate  with  which  they  had 
been  endowed  by  a  gracious  sovereign.  There  had  been  an 
Italian  lady  in  this  family.  She  had  entered  it  in  the  days  when 
Scottish  Mary  was  young  and  gay,  and  had  left  a  real  Italian 
story  of  jealousy  and  murder  behind  her.  She  died  young,  but 
not  childless,  and  long  after  her  death,  and  when  her  story  was 
passing '  away,  a  dark-eyed  baby,  with  a  Roman  nose,  had  ap- 
peared, and  grown  up  into  a  lovely  Juno.  From  this  lady,  who 
became  a  Mrs.  Gordon,  Beatrice  was  descended,  and  through 
her  she  got  her  black  eyes,  her  laughing  face,  her  teeth  of  pearl, 
and,  with  the  beauty  of  her  Italian  ancestress,  the  English  pos- 
sessions of  the  Scotch  Carnoosies  ;  to  wit,  the  old  red  house,  the 
flower-garden,  the  grounds,  and  several  broad  and  substantial 
farms, 

It  is  pleasant  to  possess,  even  at  the  early  age  of  nine,  and 
Beatrice  now  said  to  Gilbert, 

"  I  like  Carnoosie — I  wish  you  had  a  Carnoosie,  Gilbert." 

She  looked  admiringly  at  the  red  Venetian  walls  of  her  old 
mansion. 

Gilbert,  who  was  lying  on  the  grass,  looked  up  at  the  blue 
sky,  so  far  in  real  distance,  so  seemingly  near  when  surrounding 
objects  no  longer  told  him  of  its  remoteness.  He  had  no  Car- 
noosie, as  Beatrice  called  landed  property.     The  old  chdteau  by 


BEATRICE.      ^  ,73 

the  sea,  with  its  conical  turrets  and  its  green  court,  might  never 
be  his,  but  the  broad  dome  above  vi^as  his  w^herever  he  went. 
This  was  his  ancestral  domain — wide,  beautiful,  and  blue. 

"  I  am  tired  of  being  here,"  said  Beatrice,  starting  up  ; 
"  take  me  on  your  back,  Gilbert,  and  let  us  go  in  and  look  at 
the  rooms." 

"  Put  your  arms  round  my  neck.     There  you  are  ! " 

"  Yes,  and  run  now — faster,  faster,  Gilbert !  " 

And  Gilbert  ran,  and  thus  bore  her  to  Carnoosie,  and  Beatrice 
uttered  shrill  screams  of  delight  all  the  way. 

Liberty  is  sweet  in  childhood,  and  childhood  rarely  enjoys  it. 
Family,  study,  propriety,  ever  step  in  and  say,  "  This  thou  shalt 
not  have,"  or,  "  Thou  shalt  do  this."  Later,  this  world's  yoke 
is  on  us,  and  we  bend  to  circumstances,  and,  when  fetters  are 
wanting,  busily  fashion  them  with  our  own  hands,  and  wear  them 
with  happy  complacency. 

This  liberty  Gilbert  and  Beatrice  enjoyed  in  its  fulness.  Mr. 
Eay,  Gilbert's  tutor,  did  not  interfere,  and  Miss  Jameson  was 
the  most  facile  and  yielding  of  her  race. 

"  We  must  go  and  tell  her  to  ask  Mrs.  Scot  for  the  keys," 
said  Beatrice,  as  they  entered  the  house  and  went  up  to  Miss 
Jameson's  room. 

Miss  Jameson  was  still  the  faded  lady  we  saw  at  Rosemary 
Cottage,  with  a  look  of  age  and  an  air  of  youth.  We  will  not 
venture  to  call  her  an  old  maid.  Some  of  the  signs  given  by  a 
merciful  world  to  the  tribe  she  lacked ;  she  was  not  neat,  dog- 
matic, and  uncharitable.  Meek,  negligent  and  untidy.  Miss 
Jameson  looked  like  an  amiable  good-for-nothing  lady  of  ample 
means.  She  was  fond  of  dress  in  a  lazy  way,  and  sailed  about 
Carnoosie  in  robes  of  light  texture  and  ample  trimmings  ;  or  sat 
in  her  room  smoothing  her  hair,  and  reading  to  the  sound  of  the 
splashing  fountains.  Beatrice  was  indolent,  and  Miss  Jameson 
was  rather  more  indolent  than  Beatrice.  Besides,  Mr.  Gervoise 
had  said, 

"  Make  the  child  happy — do  not  tease  her  about  her  lessons." 

Miss  Jameson,  charmed  at  the  prospect- of  long  days  of  peace, 
had  looked  at  Mr.  Gervoise  with  admiring  eyes,  and  praised  his 
suggestion. 

"  It  opened  her  mind  to  new  views  on  education,"  she  said. 

No  doubt  it  did.  Thus  Beatrice  took  a  few  straggling  les- 
sons, and  spent  the  best  part  of  her  time  out  with  Gilbert,  whilst 
Miss  Jameson  read  or  took  a  nap.  We  are  afraid  she  was  nap- 
ping when  the  children  knocked  at  her  door,  for  her  "  Come  in  " 
4 


74  BEATRICE. 

was  drowsy  and  slow,  but,  with  good-liumoured  alacrity,  she  ac- 
companied them  to  the  housekeeper's  room  and  preferred  their 
request. 

This  was  market-day,  and  Mrs.  Scot  was  always  cross  on 
market-day.  Besides,  two  table-cloths  were  missing,  and  Mr. 
Gervoise  would  hold  her  answerable  for  the  same  ;  so,  when 
Miss  Jameson  told  her  the  children  wished  to  see  the  rooms, 
Mrs.  Scot  said  rather  sternly, 

"  Well,  ma'am,  what  about  it?" 

"  Well,  Beatrice  cannot  see  the  rooms  unless  you  let  us  have 
the  keys,  Mrs.  Scot. 

Miss  Jameson  spoke  with  spirit,  for  she  was  a  great  stickler 
for  her  dignity. 

With  suspicious  suddenness  the  housekeeper  called  up  a  grim 
smile,  and  shedding  its  light  on  Beatrice,  she  said, 

"  The  keys,  oh  !  to  be  sure,  miss,  here  they  are  in  the  basket. 
I  cannot  go  with  you,  but  please  to  mind  them." 

"  They  are  my  keys,"  replied  Beatrice,  snatching  up  the  little 
basket ;  and  taking  Gilbert's  hand,  she  danced  out  of  the  room, 
followed  by  Miss  Jameson,  who  swelled  and  swayed  her  limp 
flounces  to  the  fullest  extent. 

And  now  the  red  light  of  the  declining  sun  fills  the  stately 
drawing-room  of  Carnoosie,  and  the  children,  tired  with  play, 
stand  in  the  centre  of  the  apartment.  Bright  sunbeams  steal 
across  the  floor,  up  the  faded  silk  hangings,  and  light  up  the 
black  marble  mantelpiece,  and  creep  in  threads  of  gold  in  every 
cranny. 

The  sunlight  was  warm  and  bright,  but  the  room  had  a 
dreary  look.  Beatrice  forgot  it  was  her  room,  and  crept  close 
to  Gilbert,  half  afraid.  The  lad  was  lifting  up  the  white  chair 
covers  to  see  the  furniture.  It  was  gold  picked  with  white,  and 
on  the  backs  and  seats  appeared  ladies  with  the  narrowest  waists, 
and  gentlemen  with  the  widest  coats,  walking  side  by  side  in 
faded  gardens,  and  looking  at  the  children  with  straight  bead- 
like eyes.  They  were  all  alike,  for  the  gentle  cotemporary  of 
the  Georges,  who  had  undertaken  this  mighty  task,  had  not  add- 
ed the  efforts  of  imagination  to  her  labour.  For  evermore  the 
same  gentlemen  and  ladies  walked  in  the  same  gardens,  on  the 
backs  and  seats  of  all  the  chairs. 

From  this  room  they  passed  into  the  next — madam's  closet. 
They  saw  two  chairs,  a  spindle-legged  table,  and  a  foot-length 
picture  of  a  dark  and  stately  lady  in  a  ruff  and  peaked  cap, 
which  at  once  attracted  Gilbert's  attention.     It  was  not  a  good 


BEATRICE.  76 

painting,  and  had  suffered  much  from  time.  Yet  there  was 
something  in  it,  that  something  which  in  a  portrait  tells  us  of  the 
living  original  in  language  we  cannot  mistake.  In  vain  had 
years  deepened  into  black  the  sombre  varnish,  and  effaced  the 
bloom  of  the  young  cheek,  and  turned  into  a  dull  grey  the  white- 
ness of  the  plump  flesh  ;  the  woman  from  whom  the  portrait  had 
been  painted  still  looked  at  you  from  the  canvas,  and,  as  Gilbert 
felt,  looked  with  Beatrice's  eyes.  Ay,  these  were  the  deep,  dark, 
soft  and  lustrous  eyes  of  little  Beatrice  Gordon.  This  was  her 
Italian  lip,  too,  and  her  antique  profile,  and  her  rich,  dark, 
laughing  face,  that  made  one  happy  to  look  at. 

Whatever  might  have  been  the  tragic  fate  of  Beatrice's  Italian 
ancestress,  this  portrait  of  her,  taken  in  the  bloom  of  youth  and 
beauty,  did  not  speak  of  a  fatal  ending.  It  overflowed  with  life 
and  gladness.  Such  a  face  might  look  at  you  from  among  the 
vine  leaves  of  a  southern  land,  laughing  and  joyous  as  a  Bac- 
chante's. Yet  the  natural  dignity  of  the  southern  races,  that 
dignity  free  from  stiffness,  and  which  is  so  sweet  and  winning, 
appeared  in  the  carriage  of  the  figure,  and  again  reminded  Gilbert 
of  little  Beatrice.  She  had  that  graceful  and  erect  bearing,  that 
charming  turn  of  the  neck,  that  easy  possession  of  her  whole 
being.  Gilbert  felt  this  more  than  he  thought  it,  but  he  felt  it 
very  keenly,  and  he  was  turning  round  to  compare  the  lady  with 
Beatrice,  when  he  caught  the  irreverent  descendant  of  the  dead 
Italian  making  faces  at  her  ancestress. 

"How  can  you  be  so  naughty,  Beatrice ?  That  is  your 
grandmother,  I  am  sure." 

"  I  don't  care,"  said  Beatrice,  tossing  her  curls,  and  going  to 
the  window. 

The  waving  line  of  the  forest  on  the  sky  suggested  a  new 
whim.  Longingly  she  looked  at  it,  and  she  so  prayed  and 
coaxed,  that  Gilbert  promised  to  go  and  get  a  fern  for  her  rock- 
work  from  that  magic  region ;  but  first  they  should  return  the 
keys  to  Mrs.  Scot.  Beatrice  suggested  that  she  would  keep 
them  in  her  room,  but  she  yielded  to  Gilbert's  reasoning,  and 
once  more  they  sought  that  dignitary.  At  once  Gilbert  asked 
who  was  the  original  of  the  portrait. 

"  The  late  Mr.  Carnoosie  always  said  it  was  the  portrait  of 
an  Itahan  lady  who  married  into  the  family  in  the  days  of  Mary 
Queen  of  Scots,"  replied  Mrs.  Scot. 

"  She  is  very  like  Beatrice,"  said  Gilbert. 

"  Why,  yes,  Master  Gilbert,  she  is ;  but  let  us  hope  there 
will  be  no  likeness  throughout." 


Y6  ,  BEATKICE. 

"  Why  so  ?  "  he  quickly  asked. 

"  Oh  !  because  that  lady  was  not  very  happy,  you  know,  and 
one  can  see  it  in  her  face,  about  the  mouth — an  unlucky  mouth, 
I  think." 

And  she  looked  hard  at  Beatrice,  as  if  to  find  in  her  face  the 
sign  of  misfortune,  which  the  portrait  was  not  there  to  supply. 
Beatrice  frowned  at  her  as  she  had  frowned  at  the  picture,  and 
uttered  an  impatient  "  Come  on,"  which  Gilbert  obeyed  with 
nervous  haste.  He  was  too  sensitive  and  imaginative  not  to  be 
impressed  with  Mrs.  Scot's  remarks,  and  too  shy  and  proud  not 
to  resent  them  secretly.  What  business  had  that  stern  house- 
keeper to  detect  signs  of  future  grief  and  trouble  in  the  sunny 
face  of  her  little  mistress  ? 

"  And  now  you  will  get  me  the  fern,"  said  Beatrice. 

"  You  must  not  come  after  me,  Beatrice." 

"Oh!  no." 

A  broad  but  short  avenue  of  trees  led  from  the  house  to  the 
iron  gate  that  divided  Carnoosie  from  the  forest.  Through  this 
gate  Gilbert  went  forth,  whilst  Beatrice  looked  after  him  with 
longing  eyes.  Through  the  iron  bars  she  could  see  the  long  sol- 
itary road.  The  low  rays  of  the  sinking  sun  that  lit  it  in  its 
whole  length  did  not  show  one  living  creature  along  its  yellow 
breadth  ;  at  both  ends  it  closed  in  plains,  bounded  by  a  blue  and 
indistinct  horizon.  But  before  Beatrice  rose  the  forest,  the 
wonderful,  mysterious  forest,  through  which  Carnoosie  had  been 
cut  in  the  days  gone  by,  and  another  part  of  which  met  its  ex- 
tensive grounds  towards  the  north.  This  forest  Gilbert  was  now 
entering.  He  turned  to  look  at  Beatrice  ;  then,  like  any  prince 
or  fairy  knight,  he  vanished  in  its  shadowy  gloom.  She  saw  him 
for  a  while  moving  amongst  the  mighty  trunks  of  the  ancient 
trees ;  then  they  seemed  to  close  upon  him,  and  Gilbert  was 
gone. 

The  hour  was  beautiful  and  quiet.  There  was  not  a  sound 
in  the  air,  save  of  the  birds,  who  twittered  and  flew  about  as 
they  prepared  for  their  evening  rest.  Some  perched  on  a  bough, 
sang  very  sweetly  to  their  mate  and  their  young,  and  told  once 
more  the  wonderful  story  of  love,  old  as  creation,  young  as  life. 
It  was  very  beautiful,  but  Gilbert  did  not  come  back.  The  sun 
sank,  a  ball  of  fire  and  gold,  behind  the  purple  horizon,  and  still 
he  did  not  return. 

"  I  wish  he  would,"  thought  Beatrice,  peering  anxiously 
through  the  iron  bars  to  which  she  clung  with  her  little  hands  ; 
but  still  time    passed,   and   her  young   knight  was   invisible. 


BEATRICE.  77 

Beatrice  was  impetuous,  she  flew  across  the  road,  and,  unseen 
by  the  keeper  at  the  gate,  entered  the  forest.  It  was  solemn  at 
that  hour,  dim  and  grey,  with  blue  mists  at  the  end  of  every 
path.  The  majestic  trees,  and  they  were  noble  amongst  their 
race,  spread  their  vast  branches  above  her  head ;  but  Beatrice 
loved  trees,  and  we  do  not  fear  what  we  love.  She  ran,  calling 
out,  "  Gilbert !  Gilbert ! " 

A  shout  answered  her.  She  followed  his  voice,  and  found 
him  sitting  on  a  felled  trunk  of  a  decayed  oak. 

"  I  found  you  !  "  cried  Beatrice,  "  I  found  you  ! " 

"  I  have  sprained  my  ankle,  Beatrice ;  I  cannot  walk ;  go 
and  tell  them  to  come  for  me." 

She  thought  he  was  jesting,  and  when  he  convinced  her  that 
he  was  not,  Beatrice,  though  ready  to  cry,  turned  back  obedi- 
ently. She  ran  in  her  haste,  and  stumbled  over  roots  of  trees 
and  branches  torn  off  by  recent  gales  ;  but  the  path,  so  short  on 
her  coming,  had  lengthened  strangely  on  her  return.  It  was  a 
broad  avenue  with  a  patch  of  sky  and  a  large  star,  but  Beatrice 
saw  neither  the  gate  nor  the  square  front,  nor  the  lighted  win- 
dows of  Carnoosie.  She  stopped  short,  helpless  and  frightened, 
and  in  her  terror  called  out '' Gilbert !  "  'i  Gilbert!"  Luckily 
he  heard  her.  His  voice  led  her  back  to  him  once  more.  With 
a  joyful  cry  she  sprang  into  his  arms,  and  clung  to  him,  and  hid 
her  face  against  his  breast. 

Gilbert  was  in  great  pain ;  but  he  did  not  complain.  He 
held  Beatrice  fast,  and  comforted  her,  and  she  looked  up  shyly 
at  the  stately  trees,  and  wondered  at  their  heavy  nodding  boughs. 
An  early  morn  had  risen,  and,  hanging  in  the  zenith,  sent  down 
soft  vague  rays  that  silvered  many  an  old  trunk  on  its  way. 

"  I  like  trees,"  said  Beatrice  suddenly. 

"  Why  so?"  asked  Gilbert,  struck  with  her  tone. 

But  childhood  rarely  has  the  gift  of  putting  its  feelings  into 
words.  Beatrice  liked  trees  with  a  liking  which  years  were  to 
ripen  into  a  passion,  but  she  could  not  then  say  why.  She  liked 
their  size,  their  majesty,  their  shade,  vast  and  cool,  and  what 
she  had  heard  of  their  long  life  impressed  her.  Their  duration 
seemed  to  her  a  sort  of  eternity.  As  the  traveller  gazes  on  the 
cedars  of  Lebanon,  coeval  with  wise  and  mighty  Solomon  and 
the  building  of  the  Temple,  so  did  Beatrice  look  at  the  oaks 
which  had  flourished  a  hundred  years  and  more  around  Carnoo- 
sie. Mrs.  Scot  had  told  her  that  the  oldest  amongst  them  were 
planted  long  before  Beatrice's  great-great-grandfather  was  born  ; 
and  she  added  the  stern  information,  "  and  they  will  be  fine  oaks 


78  BEATRICE. 

Still,  Miss,  long  after  you  have  been  buried  in  the  old  church 
with  the  Carnoosies." 

Beatrice  had  heard  her  with  awe,  and  henceforth  reverence 
was  added  to  her  love  for  the  kings  and  princes  of  the  forest. 
We  all  have  some  secret  communion  with  Nature,  some  fine 
and  subtle  link  by  which  we  are  bound  to  the  great  mother.  To 
some  it  lies  in  the  wild  roar  of  ocean,  in  long  sweeps  of  brown 
shore,  edged  niwith  stormy  foam,  in  rocky  coast,  and  scenery 
pregnant  with  the  sights  and  sounds  of  tempest.  To  others  the 
clear  lake,  the  stream  flowing  in  its  bed  of  sand,  the  leaping 
waterfall,  are  as  the  heart's  desire.  To  others,  again,  the  forest, 
solemn,  mysterious,  full  of  vague  whispers  and  sweet  sounds, 
the  world  of  wild  birds  and  free  creatures  that  find  shelter  be- 
neath its  green  roof,  the  realm  where  noble  trees  expand,  where 
every  rough  trunk  encloses  a  mighty  life,  which  every  spring 
renews,  and  over  which  ages  seem  to  have  no  power,  to  these, 
we  say,  trees  are  the  source  of  a  mysterious  joy  akin  to  hap-, 
piness.  ,i 

Thus  felt  Beatrice.  She  loved  trees,  she  knew  not  why,  but 
she  loved  them.  No  Dryad  ever  loved  them  more,  and  it  was 
partly  owing  to  that  love  that,  on  this  evening,  she  felt  little  fear. 
Her  forest  friends  were  around  her.  They  were  very  big  and 
mighty,  and  she  felt  a  very  little  child  near  them,  but  they  were 
friends.  Beatrice  knew  it,  and  sitting  thus,  with  her  hand  on 
Gilbert's  shoulder,  and  her  arms  clasped  around  his  neck,  she 
felt  vaguely  happy,  and,  with  the  ignorant  selfishness  of  her 
years,  made  herself  comfortable,  whilst  poor  Gilbert  was  getting 
dizzy  and  faint  with  the  fatigue  of  his  forced  attitude  and  the 
pain  of  his  swollen  foot. 

At  length  relief  came.  The  sound  of  a  horse's  hoofs  echoed 
in  the  avenue  of  the  forest.  Gilbert  at  once  raised  his  voice  and 
shouted.  A  pause  followed,  then  the  horse  was  heard  approach- 
ing, and  a  man's  loud  and  distinct  tones  asked : 

"Who's  there?" 

Gilbert  was  going  to  name  himself,  but  Beatrice  forestalled 
him. 

"  I  am  Beatrice  Gordon,"  she  said ;  *'  the  mistress  of  Car- 
noosie,"  she  added,  with  her  childish  dignity. 

"  Eh?  "  said  the  stranger's  voice,  in  a  tone  of  sharp  surprise, 
which  showed  that  neither  Beatrice's  name  nor  station  was  un- 
known to  him. 

"  I  have  sprained  my  ankle,  and  that  is  how  we  are  here," 
quietly  observed  Gilbert. 


BEATEICE.  79 

"  Sprained  your  ankle,  have  you?  "  replied  the  stranger,  who 
was  no  other  than  Doctor  Rogerson,  a  young  medical  man  who 
had  recently  settled  near  Carnoosie.  "Well,  I  am  the  very  best 
person  for  you  then.     Let  us  see  ! " 

Dr.  Rogerson  immediately  alighted,  and,  fastening  his  horse 
to  a  tree,  approached  the  two  children.  There  was  light  enough 
for  him  to  see  them,  and  a  few  questions  convinced  him  of  the^ 
need  in  which  they  stood  of  his  assistance. 

"  I  cannot  take  you  to  Carnoosie,"  he  said,  "  I  do  not  know 
the  forest  well  enough  for  that ;  but  I  can  take  you  to  my  cot- 
tage, which  is  close  by,  attend  to  you  there,  and  send  word  to 
Carnoosie  by  my  man-servant,  who  knows  the  road  well 
enough." 

Gilbert  thanked  him  in  his  quiet  way ;  and  as  it  was  said, 
so  was  it  done.  Doctor  Rogerson  set  the  lad  on  his  horse,  in 
the  position  calculated  to  give  him  least  pain ;  and  leading  the 
animal,  a  meek  one  enough,  by  the  bridle,  he  took  little  Beatrice 
by  the  hand  that  was  free,  and,  thus  accompanied,  made  his  way 
out  of  the  forest.  The  moon  was  no  longer  visible,  but  all  the 
brighter  shone  the  light  that  burned  in  the  young  doctor's  cot- 
tage ;  and,  as  their  approach  was  heard,  the  low  cottage  door 
flew  open,  a  pale  figure  appeared  on  the  threshold,  whilst  a  gay 
young  voice  asked,  in  cheerful  tones  : 

"Edward,  is  that  you?" 

Edward  replied  that  it  was  himself,  and  no  other,  and  in  a 
few  words  explained  what  had  happened. 

"  Dear  me  !  "  exclaimed  the  young  voice,  with  genuine  kind- 
ness in  its  tones,  "  how  lucky  you  met  them  !  " 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  it  is  lucky  ;  but  James  must  go  to  Carnoosie 
at  once,  and  we  want  a  light." 

The  young  wife  flew  in,  and  came  out  with  a  candle  in  her 
hand.  Its  light  shone  on  her  fresh  fair  face  beaming  with  gen- 
tle anxiety.  At  once  she  took  charge  of  Beatrice,  whilst  Doctor 
Rogerson  carried  Gilbert  in.  They  passed  through  a  pretty  lit- 
tle sitting-room,  with  its  chintz  furniture  still  in  its  bridal  fresh- 
ness— ^Doctor  Rogerson's  honeymoon  was  scarcely  over — and  in 
the  next,  room,  a  plainer  one,  but  also  newly  decorated,  Gilbert 
was  put  down.  Doctor  Rogerson  carefully  placed  him  in  an 
arm-chair,  and  at  once  attended  to  his  swollen  foot. 

"  You  will  have  to  stay  quiet  for  a  few  weeks,"  said  Doctor 
Rogerson,  shaking  his  head  gravely ;  "  but  I  suppose  you  can 
bear  that?" 

Gilbert  replied  that  he  could  ;  but,  on  hearing  Doctor  Roger- 


80  BEATEICE. 

son's  decree,  Beatrice  stamped  her  foot,  and  vehemently  de- 
clared : 

"  Grilbert  must  not  stay  quiet !  I  will  not  let  him  !  He 
must  not ! " 

She  spoke  with  imperious  wilfulness.  Doctor  Rogerson 
smiled  an  amused  smile,  and  turned  round  to  pinch  Beatrice's 
cheek ;  but  he  remembered  that  she  was  the  mistress  of  Car- 
noosie,  and  he  did  not  take  the  liberty.  Indeed,  it  occurred  to 
him  that  Mrs.  Rogerson  ought  not  to  have  left  that  young  lady, 
and,  calling  her  in,  he  whispered  as  much.  Save  that  she  re- 
sisted Mrs.  Rogerson's  attempt  to  take  her  from  the  room,  Bea- 
trice received  that  lady's  attentions  with  evident  pleasure,  and 
when  tea  was  brought  in,  and  the  four  sat  down  to  it,  nothing 
could  exceed  the  sociability  of  the  little  party. 

But  it  was  soon  broken  up.  Scarcely  was  tea  over,  when 
Miss  Jameson  came  in  the  carriage  to  fetch  the  two  children. 
She  looked  pale  and  ill  with  the  fright  she  had  had  at  their  dis- 
appearance, and  was  more  intent  on  reprimanding  Beatrice  than 
on  thanking  Doctor  Rogerson  Mrs.  Rogerson  she  scarcely 
looked  at.  But  Beatrice,  little  accustomed  to  reproof  from  that 
quarter,  only  laughed  carelessly  ,  and  Doctor  Rogerson,  who 
gently  shook  his  forefinger  at  her,  laughed  too,  to  Miss  Jame- 
son's great  indignation  ;  moreover,  he  insisted  on  accompanying 
his  patient  home,  notwithstanding  the  governess's  resistance. 
Sprained  ancles,  he  assured  Miss  Jameson,  were  serious  affairs, 
and,  gently  overruling  her,  he  stepped  into  the  carriage,  and 
drove  off  to  Carnoosie,  gracefully  waving  his  hand  to  his  young 
wife,  whose  eyes  sparkled  with  pleasure  and  pride. 

"  Quite  an  adventure,"  thought  Mrs.  Rogerson,  reentering 
the  cottage  in  a  state  of  agreeable  excitement.  "  I  must  sit 
down  and  write  to  Jane  at  once  ! " 

And  so  she  did.  The  prettily-furnished  chintz  sitting-room 
owned  a  dainty  little  bureau,  which  was  devoted  to  Mrs.  Roger- 
son's  use.  She  had  been  a  zealous  letter-writer  before  her  mar- 
riage, as  most  English  young  ladies  are,  and  she  was  too  newly 
married,  and  had  seen  as  yet  too  little  of  the  cares  of  married 
life,  to  have  lost  the  gentle  habit.  So  she  sat  down  and  wrote 
to  Jane,  her  favourite  sister,  and  in  her  prolix,  chatting  way 
told  her  the  wonderful  story.  She  headed  it  "  The  Babes  in 
the  Wood,"  in  italics.  It  began  with  a  vivid  description  of  the 
forest,  and  ended  with  another  description,  rather  a  graphic  one, 
of  Miss  Jameson,  whom  she  called  "  an  old  faded  blonde,  my 
dear  !  you  know  what  I  mean." 

Ay  !  Mrs.  Rogerson,  and  so  does  Time  !     Look  at  yourself 


BEATRICE.  81 

now,  in  the  new  mirror  above  the  mantel-shelf;  your  hair  is 
golden,  and  your  cheek  is  rosy,  and  you  have  the  reddest  of  red 
young  lips  ;  but  let  a  few  years  pass,  and  that  mirror  will  tell 
another  tale.  Question  it  not,  then  ;  or  if  you  do,  forget  how, 
in  the  pride  and  insolence  of  youth,  you  passed  judgment  on 
poor  faded  Miss  Jameson. 

"  Well,"  continues  Mrs.  Rogerson's  nimble  pen,  "  that  old 
piece  of  faded  blonde  steps  into  the  carriage,  and  actually  wants 
to  argue  Doctor  Rogerson  against  accompanying  her  ;  but  I  need 
not  tell  you  that  Doctor  Rogerson,  who  is  a  rock  in  professional 
matters,  insisted  on  going ;  and  so  he  drove  off  in  the  old  family 
carriage  with  the  Carnoosie  arms  on  the  panel." 

As  Mrs.  Rogerson  gave  this  little  finishing  touch  to  the  pic- 
ture, Doctor  Rogerson  returned,  not  in  the  carriage  with  the 
Carnoosie  arms,  however,  and  entered  the  room  with  a  cheerful — 

"  To  whom  are  you  writing,  my  dear?" 

His  wife  replied,  with  a  pretty  smile,  that  she  was  writing 
to  Jane,  and,  bending  over  her  chair,  her  huvsband  read  the  un- 
finished letter.  It  amused  him  greatly ;  he  patted  his  wife's 
cheek,  and,  sitting  down  by  her,  began  discussing  the  night's 
adventure. 

"  Very  fortunate  for  us,"  he  remarked.  "  This  cottage  took 
my  fancy  the  moment  I  saw  it.  I  felt  convinced  it  was  just  the 
place  for  a  medical  man,  and  you  see,  my  dear,  already  a  splen- 
did connexion  is  opening  before  us.  That  lad's  brother  is  our 
landlord,  you  know — a  minor,  and  his  father  married  the  heiress's 
mother.  Very  wealthy  people — ^just  the  thing  for  me — and  with- 
out seeking,  too.  No  toadying,  my  love ;  all  reliance  on  my 
own  honourable  exertions  and  professional  skill." 

"  Just  so,"  murmured  his  wife. 

"  I  shall  always  keep  up  my  pride  and  independence,"  con- 
tinued Doctor  Rogerson,  whose  face  bore  as  yet  but  few  tokens 
of  this  world's  trials  ;  "  with  your  little  fortune  and  my  own  few 
hundreds  before  us,  I  hope  I  can  do  without  currying  any  man's 
favour,  were  he  a  peer  of  the  realm." 

"  I  am  sure  you  would  not  do  that  to  a  prince,"  said  his  wife. 

She  leaned  her  head  on  her  husband's  shoulder,  and  looked 
up  in  his  face.  He  stooped  and  kissed  her  fondly.  They  had 
loved  years,  and  had  been  married  but  a  few  weeks.  Everything 
was  new  to  them :  wedded  bliss,  life  and  its  trials.  Their  love 
was  a  rock,  their  honour  had  not  a  speck.  No  pair  of  butterflies 
ever  went  f<1!rth  on  a  May  morning  with  gilded  wings  less  harmed 
as  yet  by  this  world's  dust  or  rain. 
4* 


'■  rnH\    fTT.i, 


,      ,  J-  ,,,,,  ,  „  CHAPTEE  Xn.  ,  ,„,„„„  ,,,„,  ., 

A  COUCH  in  the  library  was  now  Gilbert's  fate.  The  library 
was  a  large  room  on  the  ground  floor,  full  of  books,  and  dimly 
lighted  by  three  deep  windows.  Near  one  of  these  Gilbert's 
couch  was  placed.  Thence  his  eye  could  rest  on  the  cheerful 
and  sunlit  terrace,  or  wander  over  the  flower  garden,  with  a  vista 
of  a  green  avenue  and  a  white  statue  beyond.  If  studiously 
inclined,  Gilbert  preferred  another  prospect — the  room  aflbrded 
it — shelves  of  dark  bound  books  stretched  along  the  walls  and 
rose  from  the  floor  to  the  ceiling,  patiently  waiting  for  a  friendly 
hand.  Here  for  several  weeks  Gilbert  received  Mr.  Ray's 
lessons,  and  the  restless  Beatrice  sat  by  him  reading  and  studying 
too,  to  Miss  Jameson's  surprise.  But  no  sooner  was  the  patient 
released  than  the  pair  returned  to  the  old  life,  and,  faithful  to 
the  rule  of  love.  Miss  Jameson  allowed  Beatrice  to  wander  about 
Carnoosie  with  Gilbert. 

Thus  two  months  had  passed  away  when  we  again  find  the 
two  in  the  orchard.  The  flush  of  dying  day  dyes  with  a  deeper 
glow  the  boughs  laden  with  young  fruit ;  the  grass  below  is 
bright  and  golden,  and  the  warm  light  lingers  around  the  dark 
Beatrice  and  the  fair-haired  Gilbert  as  they  sit  at  the  foot  of  the 
old  apple-tree.  Suddenly  Beatrice,  supple  and  quick  as  a  young 
panther,  makes  a  spring  at  Gilbert.  A  remonstrative  "  Beatrice  ! " 
does  not  check  her,  and  most  indecorous,  unyoungladylike  is 
Beatrice's  behaviour.  Gilbert  is  satisfied  with  the  mildest  of 
resistance,  and  will  not  be  provoked  into  retaliation ;  so  that 
little  tyrant  Beatrice  has  it  all  her  own  way,  until  a  voice  utters 
a  friendly  "  Well,  children,"  which  puts  a  sudden  end  to  the 
unequal  contest. 

Beatrice  started  to  her  feet,  and  pushed  back  the  curls  from 
her  flushed  face  ;  then  uttered  a  cry,  and  sprung  into  her  mother's 
arms  with  a  joyful  transport. 

"  My  dear,  be  calm,  do  not  agitate  yourself,"  ansdously  said 
Mr.  Gervoise  ;  "  I  think  you  had  better  put  down  the  child,"  he 


BEATEICE.  83 

added  persuasively.  At  once,  and  with  prompt  obedience,  Mrs. 
Gervoise  put  away  Beatrice,  who  knit  her  fine  dark  eyebrows, 
and  scowled  most  determinedly  at  her  stepfather,  guardian,  and 
trustee. 

"  Come  and  give  me  a  kiss,  my  love?"  he  asked,  with  a 
gracious  smile. 

"  I  won't !"  was  Beatrice's  sharp  and  rude  reply. 

Mr.  Gervoise  shook  his  forefinger  at  her ;  then,  turning  to 
his  son,  he  welcomed  him  affectionately. 

"  You  are  growing  quite  a  man,  my  dear  boy,"  he  said, 
surveying  him  with  paternal  pride  ;  "  and  you  are  studying  hard, 
Mr.  Ray  tells  me.  Remember,  my  dear  Gilbert,  ever  remember 
that  you  cannot  gratify  your  father's  heart  more  truly  than  by 
improving  yourself  and  becoming  a  useful  and  active  member  of 
society." 

Gilbert  did  not  answer.  He  looked  very  earnestly  at  his 
father,  then  from  him  to  Mrs.  Gervoise,  whose  wistful  blue  eyes 
rested  on  Beatrice. 

"  The  child  has  gi*own,"  she  said  to  her  husband. 

"  She  has ;  and  she  is  improved.  Perhaps,  my  dear,  you 
would  like  to  take  her  by  the  hand.     I  think  you  may  do  that." 

Beatrice,  on  hearing  this  gracious  permission,  gave  her 
guardian  another  frown,  and,  clinging  to  her  mother's  skirts, 
attempted  to  lead  her  away  ;  but  Mrs.  Gervoise  was  already  too 
well  disciplined  to  yield,  and,  indeed,  no  sooner  did  Mr.  Gervoise 
hint  that  she  stood  in  need  of  rest,  than  she  said  with  a  little 
nervous  start : 

"  Go  and  play,  Beatrice." 

Beatrice  attempted  to  resist ;  but  her  once-yielding  mother 
was  firm,  and  dismissed  her.  Gilbert  took  Beatrice's  hand,  and 
led  her  away.  They  went  no  farther  than  one  of  the  four  foun- 
tains. Beatrice  looked  at  its  falling  waters,  then  flung  her  arms 
around  Gilbert's  neck,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  Hush  !"  he  said  ;  "they  can  see  us." 

"I  don't  care,"  angrily  replied  Beatrice;  "  Carnoosie  is 
mine." 

Gilbert  did  not  argue  with  her,  but  he  had  his  own  thoughts. 
She  had  never  felt  the  yoke — she  was  still  untamed  and  uncon- 
quered ;  he  had  groaned  beneath  it,  and  though  silenced  and 
outwardly  obedient,  he  was  inwardly  a  rebel — ay,  and  a  greater 
one  than  Beatrice ! 

Mr.  Gervoise  was  watching  them  curiously  from  within.  He 
was  short-sighted,  and  could  not  detect  Beatrice's  tears ;  but 


84  "^  BEATEICE. 

Beatrice's  mother  saw  them,  and  sighed  behind  her  husband's 
chair.  Mr.  Gervoise  turned  round  and  gave  her  a  surprised 
look. 

"  My  love,"  he  said,  with  gentle  reproof,  "  did  I  not  tell  you 
you  were  tired  ?     I  am  sure  you  feel  it." 

"  Ye — es,"  hesitatingly  replied  Mrs.  Gervoise  ;  "  but  I  should 
like  to  see  Beatrice  again." 

"  My  love,  you  can  see  her  to-morrow.  Many  mothers  have 
not  the  happiness  of  seeing  their  children  daily,  and  I  have  had 
thoughts  of  having  our  Beatrice  educated  in  France." 

Mrs.  Gervoise  gave  her  husband  a  frightened  look.  He  con- 
tinued :  "  My  tenderness  for  you  restrained  me.  I  hope  you  ap- 
preciate my  motive  ?  " 

Mrs.  Gervoise  murmured  that  she  did. 

"  And  now,  my  love,  will  you  go  and  rest,  and  send  Mrs. 
Scot  to  me,  please  ?  " 

Mrs.  Gervoise  went,  and  Mr.  Gervoise  leaned  back  in  his 
chair,  folded  his  hands,  and  half  shut  his  eyes.  He  sat  near  one 
of  the  windows,  and  the  warm  western  light  fell  on  his  face,  and 
it  was  a  handsome  face,  with  fine  classical  lines.  His  flowing, 
fair  hair,  his  large  blue  eyes,  his  fine  figure,  added  to  his  pre- 
possessing appearance.  Mr.  Gervoise  had  also  grand,  courteous 
manners,  as  we  know  ;  yet,  as  a  rule,  he  was  rather  feared  than 
loved.  We  have  seen  Mrs.  Scot  grim  and  sharp,  but  if  we  want 
to  see  her  subdued,  let  us  watch  her  now  as  she  enters  the  room. 
With  hesitating  step,  with  restless  look,  Mrs.  Scot  walks  toward 
her  master  ;  and  Mr.  Gervoise,  who  is  watching  her  through  his 
half-shut  eyes,  and  from  behind  his  glasses,  wakes  up  with  a 
start,  and  welcomes  her  courteously,  and  bids  her  take  a  chair, 
for  he  has  a  good  deal  to  say. 

"  Mrs.  Scot,"  he  suavely  began,  "  Monsieur  Panel,  who  ar- 
rived yesterday,  is  henceforth  to  rule  over  the  kitchen  of  Car- 
noosie.  The  health  of  Mrs.  Gervoise  and  of  our  dear  little 
daughter  required  his  presence  here,  and  I  commend  him  to  your 
special  care." 

"  Very  well,  sir,"  grimly  replied  Mrs.  Scot. 

"  Please  to  touch  the  beU,  Mrs.  Scot,  and  to  ask  for  Mon- 
sieur Panel ;  but  do  not  go  yet.  We  must  have  a  little  further 
conversation." 

Mrs.  Scot  obeyed,  and  a  pale,  gentlemanlike-looking  man 
with  a  moustache  soon  made  his  appearance. 

"  Monsieur  Panel,"  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  "  I  want  a  trifle  hj 
seven.  A  mere  trifle,  something  strengthening,  if  you  please. 
What  can  I  have  ?  " 


BEATKICE.  85 

"A  consomme,  fish,  fowlj " 

"  That  will  do.  Monsieur  Panel.  I  leave  it  to  you.  Noth- 
ing debilitating,  if  you  please.  I  look  strong,  and  am  delicate  ; 
whereas  Mrs.  Gervoise,  who  looks  delicate,  is  very  robust.  She 
never  touches  a  morsel  between  her  meals,  whereas  I  must  have 
food  frequently.  I  leave  it  all  to  you.  Monsieur  Panel.  Ac- 
cept my  thanks  beforehand." 

Monsieur  Panel  laid  his  hand  on  his  heart,  bowed,  and  with- 
drew. 

"  I  feel  quite  exhausted,"  said  Mr.  Gervoise  to  Mrs.  Scot, 
"  and  I  have  thirteen  letters  to  write  to-night.  My  connection 
is  painfully  extensive,  but  1  must  keep  it  up,  for  the  dear  child's 
sake;  and  now,  Mrs.  Scot,  how  have  matters  been  going  on? 
How  did  the  servants  behave  ?  " 

"  It's  no  use  complaining,  sir." 

"  How  true  !     No  changes  ?  " 

"  It's  no  use  changing  them  people,  sir." 

"  Mrs.  Scot,  I  admire  your  judgment !  Well,  you  know  my 
wishes.  Let  us  have  a  liberal  household.  Spare  no  expense, 
Mrs.  Scot.     Ah  !  .by-the-bye,  what  do  the  servants  say  of  me?" 

"  Nothing,  sir  ;  I  would  not  allow  it." 

"  Ah !  just  so.  And  the  county.  What  does  the  county 
say  of  me?" 

"  I  never  leave  Camoosie,  sir." 

"  Ah !  to  be  sure.  Well,  that  is  all,  I  believe.  WiU  you 
kindly  send  John  to  me  with  the  key  of  the  gallery  ?  You  need 
not  trouble  to  bring  it  yourself,  Mrs.  Scot." 

Mrs.  Scot  rose  and  moved  toward  the  door ;  suddenly  Mr. 
Gervoise  called  her  back. 

" How  do  you  think  I  look,  Mrs.  Scot?"  he  asked  in  a  tone 
of  alarm.  "  A  sudden  faintness  has  just  come  over  me.  I  fear 
I  must  look  ill.     I  feel  ill." 

"  You  don't  look  ill,  sir  !  " 

"Don't  I?  And  what  about  Miss  Jameson,  Mrs.  Scot?  I 
thought  she  looked  poorly.     I  hope  I  was  mistaken  ?  " 

Vicious  animation  appeared  on  Mrs.  Scot's  face. 

"  Miss  Jameson  oversleeps  herself,  sir  ;  nothing  else  ails  her 
that  I  know  of." 

"  Dear  me  !  I  must  argue  with  her.  Too  much  sleep  brings 
on  a  full  habit." 

"  She  is  sleeping  now,"  continued  Mrs.  Scot.  "  She  is  al- 
ways sleeping." 

"  Dangerous  and  wrong.  I  shall  positively  go  and  find  her 
out.     And  does  my  daughter.  Miss  Gordon,  sleep  too  ?  " 


86  BEATRICE. 

"  No,  sir,  Miss  Beatrice  nms  wild,  rather." 

"  She  is  a  delightful  little  romp,  I  know — I  know.  That  will 
do,  Mrs.  Scot,  that  will  do." 

Thus  dismissed,  Mrs.  Scot  left  the  room.  To  give  whole- 
some advice,  and  to  give  it  speedily,  was,  Mr.  Gervoise  often 
said,  the  true  test  of  a  benevolent  heart.  He  lost  no  time  in 
putting  this  wise  precept  into  practice,  by  seeking  Miss  Jameson 
at  once.  He  found  her  in  the  study,  and  found  her  sleeping. 
She  awoke  with  a  confused  start,  but  Mr.  Gervoise  smiled 
blandly,  and  replied : 

"  There  is  nothing  like  sleep.  Miss  Jameson.  You  know 
what  Shakspeare  says.  Ah  !  well,  never  mind,  I  have  forgotten 
it.     Besides,  I  come  tipon  business." 

He  drew  a  chair  near  hers,  and,  looking  confidential  and 
amiable,  he  resumed : 

"What  about  the  rule  of  love?  Does  Beatrice  learn  a 
little?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  a  little." 

"I  am  satisfied.  What  does  she  want  with  superfluous 
knowledge  ?  It  would  be  cruel  to  urge  her  too  much — positively 
cruel !  And  now  to  the  rule  of  love  let  us  add  the  scheme  of 
observation.  You  must  know.  Miss  Jameson,  that  education  is 
my  hobby.  I  have  written  a  treatise  upon  it,  which  I  must  read 
to  you  some  day.     What  day  shall  it  be,  Miss  Jameson  ?  " 

"  Aay  day,  I  am  sure,  sir." 

"  No,  but  please  mention  a  day." 

"  Will  to-morrow  do?" 

"  Why,  no,  not  to-morrow,  I  have  leases  to  look  at ;  but  say 
after  to-morrow,  at  two  o'clock.  Well,  then.  Miss  Jameson,  we 
must  have  observation  ;  you  must  observe  Beatrice  from  morn- 
ing till  night,  and  from  night  till  morning." 

"  And  act  on  my  observations,"  eagerly  put  in  Miss  Jameson. 
"  I  understand." 

"  Ah!  but  you  see  it  is  my  method  you  are  applying;  J 
think  you  had  better  report  to  me,  and  then  I  shall  be  able  to 
guide  you." 

Miss  Jameson  turned  red,  and  was  silent. 

"  Miss  Jameson,"  asked  Mr.  Gervoise,  with  suave  austerity, 
"  may  I  request  you  to  favour  me  with  a  reply." 

"  I  am  afraid,  sir." 

"  You  are  afraid,  madam  !     What  do  you  mean  by  that?  " 

Mr.  Gervoise's  courtesy  had  all  vanished.  He  spoke  in  a 
loud,  sharp,  high  voice,  angry  and  insolent ;  a  voice  that  told 


BEATRICE.  87 

Miss  Jameson  of  instant  and  disgraceful  dismissal.  The  eighty 
pounds  a-year,  the  comforts  of  Carnoosie,  and  dear  delicate 
Anna,  who  depended  upon  her  for  support,  rushed  at  once  to 
Miss  Jameson's  mind.  She  gave  Mr.  Gervoise  a  frightened 
look,  and  said  hurriedly  : 

"  I  mean,  sir,  that  I  am  afraid  the  task  is  not  an  easy  one 
with  Beatrice  ;  she  is  a  quick  child,  and  would  detect — "  Here 
Miss  Jameson  paused,  at  a  loss  for  the  right  word. 

"  Observation,"  blandly  suggested  Mr.  Gervoise. 

"  Observation,  as  you  say.  She  would  detect  observation  at 
once." 

"Well,  Miss  Jameson,  you  must  be  careful — ^you  must  be 
careful,  ma'am  ;  but  it  must  be  done." 

Miss  Jameson  sighed  and  looked  piteous,  but  Mr.  Gervoise 
had  too  much  principle  to  relent,  or  allow  her  to  escape. 
,.     He  looked  at  her  fixedly,  and  said  again ; 
-     "  It  must  be  done.  Miss  Jameson." 

"  Very  well,  sir,"  she  replied,  submissively.  •'  As  you 
please. 

"  Just  so ;  and  now.  Miss  Jameson,  allow  me  a  question. 
You  have  been  some  weeks  in  the  house.  I  can  see  in  your 
face  that  you  are  of  a  strongly  observant  turn  ;  your  opportuni- 
ties, too,  have  been  numerous.  What  do  the  members  of  this 
household  say  of  me  ?  " 

Mr.  Gervoise  bent  to  hear  Miss  Jameson's  reply.  She  was 
confounded  and  startled  at  the  question.  Several  unpleasant  re- 
marks which  she  had  overheard  rushed  to  her  mind,  but  she 
could  not  repeat  them,  it  would  affront  Mr.  Gervoise. 

"  I  am  not  sensitive,"  he  said  blandly.  "  Speak  without 
fear,  Miss  Jameson.  Besides,  I  am  not  too  old  to  learn,  and 
improve  myself." 

Although  she  was  a  governess,  and  had  been  one  for  twenty 
years.  Miss  Jameson  was  not  a  clear-headed  person.  She  was 
apt  to  confuse  many  things :  she  was  clear  about  nothing,  least 
of  all  about  her  own  motives.  Though  sluggish  and  dull,  she 
was  so  far  the  creature  of  impulse  that  reasoning  had  nothing  to 
do  with  her  actions. 

Mr.  Gervoise's  question  did  not  suggest  to  her  that  to  repeat 
speeches  not  intended  to  be  repeated  is  something  very  like  trea- 
son. Miss  Jameson  did  not  take  that  view  of  the  subject.  She 
only  felt  vaguely  that  she  must  answer,  that  she  must  tell  the 
truth ;  and  behind  these  two  motives  for  sincerity  she  did  not  see 
or  wish  to  see  a  third — her  cold  but  very  positive  dislike  to  Mrs. 


88  BEATRICE. 

Scot.  She  became  quite  lively,  and  said  with  an  eagerness  that 
gave  Mr.  Gervoise  the  clue  to  her  nature  : 

"  Well,  Mr.  Gervoise,  since  you  will  know  the  truth,  I  must 
tell  it  to  you.     Mrs.  Scot's  language  has  not  been  respectful." 

"  Tell  me  all,  Miss  Jameson  ;  I  am  not  sensitive." 

"  Well,  sir,  she  said  you  wheedled — I  beg  your  pardon " 

*'  Go  on.  Miss  Jameson." 

"  The  late  Mr.  Camoosie." 

Mr.  Gervoise  smiled. 

"Aye,  just  as  she  said.  Miss  Jameson,  that  you  beat 
Beatrice." 

"  I  beat  Beatrice  !"  gasped  Miss  Jameson. 

"  I  mean  slapping.  Do  not  agitate  yourself,  I  do  not  believe 
a  word  of  it ;  but  to  be  frank,  I  cannot  part  with  Mrs.  Scot ;  we 
must  bear  with  her." 

"  I  never  laid  a  finger  on  Miss  Gordon  !  "  cried  Miss  Jame- 
son, on  the  brink  of  tears.  "  I  never  even  pushed  or  shook  her 
— ^never ! " 

"  Let  us  drop  the  subject — only  a  little  observation  in  that 
quarter  would  render  me  an  invaluable  service.  Good  evening, 
Miss  Jameson  ;  I  think  I  hear  John,  and  he  is  looking  for  me. 
Good  evening.     You  look  quite  lovely  to-night.  Miss  Jameson." 

With  which  polite  speech  Mr.  Gervoise  took  his  leave,  anti 
found  John  on  the  staircase. 

"  Thank  you,  John,"  he  said,  taking  the  key  from  him.  "  I 
am  glad  to  see  you  looking  so  well ;  it  is  quite  remarkable." 

Perhaps  it  was,  for  John  had  rather  a  surly  look.  He  had 
been  Mr.  Garnoosie's  favourite,  and  resented  that  gentleman's 
death  as  a  personal  injury. 

"  I  hope  every  thing  has  been  smooth  and  pleasant,"  airily 
continued  Mr.  Gervoise. 

This  was  an  exasperating  question,  for  between  John  and 
Mrs.  Scot  there  was  an  old  feud,  which  had  broken  out  anew 
within  the  last  week.  So  John's  reply  to  Mr.  Gervoise's  kind 
inquiry  was  that  Mrs.  Scot  had  been  as  pleasant  as  vinegar. 

"  Dear  me,  I  must  put  a  stop  to  that,"  said  Mr.  Gervoise 
gravely  ;  "  you  must  tell  me  more.     Come  this  way,  John." 

When  Mrs.  Scot  gave  Beatrice  the  keys  of  the  Camoosie 
rooms,  she  omitted  one  concerning  which  she  had  received  strict 
injunctions  from  Mr.  Gervoise.  This  key  was  that  of  a  gallery 
containing  a  small  but  splendid  collection  of  pictures  which  had 
been  made  by  the  late  Mr.  Camoosie.     Mr.  Gervoise  adored  fine 


BEATRICE.  89 

pictures,  and  this  gallery  where  they  reigned  in  costly  solitude 
was  the  great  charm  of  Carnoosie  in  his  eyes. 

He  now  entered  it,  followed  by  John,  and  he  could  not  con- 
ceal his  pleasure.  Even  in  that  fading  twilight  he  saw  them  all, 
his  darlings  and  his  treasures — ^Beatrice's  by  law,  his  by  enjoy- 
ment. There  was  his  luscious  Rubens,  with  the  warm  rich 
blood  flowing  beneath  the  delicate  skin,  and  mantling  in  the 
clear  cheek.  This  was  his  Murillo,  simple,  noble,  and  tender. 
There  was  his  Rembrandts,  with  the  transparent  darkness  of  his 
vast  rooms  and  winding  staircases.  There  were  his  exquisite 
Dutch  masters,  refined  and  homely,  painting  common  things  with 
divine  art.  Oh  !  for  a  Raffaelle,  for  a  Vinci !  But  these  costly 
masters  had  probably  been  beyond  the  reach  of  the  late  Mr. 
Carnoosie  of  Carnoosie,  and  Mr.  Gervoise  sighed  to  remember 
that  he  should  never  enjoy  and  possess  them.  And  the  dearer 
they  were,  the  better  he  liked  them,  for  he  had  the  true  spirit  of 
covetousness — ^he  liked  fine  pictures  for  their  value  as  well  as  for 
their  beauty.  He  gave  those  before  him  a  fond  look,  and  turning  ^ 
to  John,  he  bade  him  speak. 

"  I  can  look  and  listen,  you  know.     So  pray  go  on." 

And  John  did  go  on,  grumbling  in  his  desultory  fashion, 
whilst  Mr.  Gervoise  looked  at  the  sixty  pictures.  Suddenly  he 
stopped,  amazed  and  doubtful. 

"  John,  this  is  monstrous  ! "  he  said  ;  "  I  cannot  believe  that 
Mrs.  Scot  hates  her  young  mistress.     Why  should  she,  John?" 

"  Why,  sir,  Mrs.  Scot  has  a  curious  way  of  puffing  out  her 
cheeks  and  blowing  when  she  is  dusting  and  cleaning,  and  she 
caught  Miss  Beatrice  mimicking  her  behind  her  back,  and  so  she 
hates  her." 

"  John,  you  are  a  keen  observer.  Of  course  you  like  your 
young  mistress  ?  " 

"  Not  as  if  she  were  a  real  Carnoosie,"  replied  John  bluntly ; 
"  but  I  will  do  my  duty  by  her." 

"  Just  so.     As  to  Mrs.  Scot,  I  must  give  her  a  talking." 

"  She  wants  one,  sir." 

"  I  fear  she  does  ;  but  what  does  she  say  about  me,  John?" 

"  Nothing  that  I  know  of,  sir  ;  besides,  I  am  no  tell-tale." 

Mr.  Gervoise  stepped  back,  and  his  glasses  shone  admir- 
ingly on  John. 

"  I  like  you  for  that,"  he  said.  "  You  are  an  outspoken, 
manly  Englishman.  I  like  you,  but  I  must  give  Mrs.  Scot  a 
talking.     Good  evening,  John." 

John  went,  chuckling  with  grim  satisfaction  ;  and  Mr.  Ger- 


90  BEATRICE. 

voise  remained  alone,  looking  at  the  pictures,  and  sighing  over 
the  missing  Raffaelle  until  seven  struck.  Mr.  Gervoise  then 
went  forth  to  partake  of  that  little  strengthening  repast  which  he 
had  ordered  that  he  might  prepare  himself  for  the  exertion  of 
writing  those  thirteen  letters  which  were  to  keep  up  and  improve 
his  extensive  connection,  for  Beatrice's  benefit. 


^7  rJ^il 


,3:C»^Ana; 


1..,..--  .,,■...   ;.:.-.   .....    ..-,... 

9d*  fh  .       h  hnn  f^rj^  s*.(i'-ff  xdaH 

iVffi')  tfOT  *«'^h*r»?e>?f  4 n Kill  ^oK 

■  CHAPTER  XIII.  '     ..; 


Three  days  exactly  after  tlie  return  of  Mr.  Gervoise  to  Car- 
noosie,  Mr.  Raby  made  his  appearance  there.  He  came  by  ap- 
pointment ;  surprise  did  not  blend  therefore  with  Mr.  Gervoise's 
pleasure.  Of  that  pleasure  we  cannot  doubt,  Mr.  Gervoise  ex- 
pressed it  too  loudly. 

"  How  well  you  do  look ! "  he  said,  as  he  received  Mr.  Raby 
at  the  head  of  the  steps  which  led  to  the  house  ;  "  and  how  I  have 
been  longing  for  you  !  Only  an  hour  ago  I  was  saying  to  Gil- 
bert, '  I  am  longing  for  Mr.  Raby.' " 

Mr.  Gervoise  turned  to  his  son,  who  stood  by  him  with 
Beatrice  ;  but  instead  of  confirming  this  affectionate  speech, 
Gilbert  reddened  and  walked  away. 

"  A  shy  lad,"  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  smiling,  and  showing  all 
his  teeth,  "  a  shy  lad.     Let  us  go  in  here,  if  you  please." 

He  showed  his  guest  into  tli«e  library,  and  closing  the  door, 
said  anxiously  :  "  What  news?" 

"I  should  have  known  better  than  let  Mr.  Carnoosie's  will 
bind  me,"  groaned  Mr.  Raby.  "  Doctor  Jones  warned  me,  but 
I  would  have  my  way.     Served  me  right ! " 

"  My  dear  sir,"  affectionately  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  "  why  take 
all  this  trouble  ?  If  you  are  delicate  1  am  strong ;  leave  every 
thing  to  me,  I  can  bear  it." 

Mr.  Gervoise  spoke  in  all  sincerity.  Mr.  Raby  hated  the 
trust,  and  Mr.  Gervoise  the  co-trustee.  Mr.  Raby  had  under- 
taken it  out  of  regard  to  the  dead,  and  Mr.  Gervoise  out  of  affec- 
tion to  the  living.  Both  had  yielded  to  necessity,  and  both  had 
given  her  a  reluctant  assent. 

But  though  Mr.  Raby  hated  his  task,  though  he  thought 
Beatrice's  affairs  in  safe  hands,  though  he  knew  this  fatal  trust 
would  shorten  his  days,  he  would  not  sign  a  scrap  of  paper  with- 
out first  looking  over  it ;  he  would  grow  dizzy  over  accounts,  and 
fall  asleep  over  explanations.     In  short,  though  he  had  given  no 


92  BEATRICE. 

trouble  as  yet,  there  was  no  knowing  when  he  would  do  so  ;  and 
Mr.  Gervoise,  who  was  of  a  mistrustful  nature,  was  on  his  guard. 
"He  is  like  a  cat,"  thought  Beatrice's  guardian.  "He  is  fast 
asleep,  his  eyes  are  shut,  he  is  nodding,  you  think  yourself  safe, 
and  lo  and  behold  you,  he  springs,  he  is  upon  you  ! " 

This  graphic  image  was  ever  before  Mr.  Gervoise*s  mental 
vision  when  Mr.  Raby  was  by,  and  therefore  was  it  with  the 
tenderest  hesitation  that  he  proffered  his  services. 

"  No,  thank  you,"  sighed  Mr.  Raby ;  "  besides,  you  can't 
help  me  with  this  Mortimer.     You  are  too  much  in  it." 

"  I ! " 

"  Yes.  He  says  he'll  attack  the  will ;  that  Mr.  Camoosie 
would  never  have  left  his  money  to  poor  Gordon  if  he  had  known 
he  had  turned  Papist " 

"  Mr.  Camoosie,"  interrupted  Mr.  Gervoise  solemnly,  "  is  in 
another  and  a  better  world,  and  these  questions,  these  differences, 
do  not  trouble  him  now." 

Mr.  Raby  looked  puzzled. 
>  "Well,"  but  he  said  at  length,  "what  religion  is  Beatrice 
of?" 

"  Mr.  Raby,  a  child  is  of  no  religion." 

"  Well,  but  what  religion  are  you  of?"  persisted  Mr.  Raby, 
not  much  enlightened. 

"  I  am  of  the  religion  of  the  good  all  the  world  over,"  modest- 
ly replied  Mr.  Gervoise. 

Mr.  Raby  felt  rather  more  perplexed  than  before.  The  late 
Richard  Gordon  had  left  the  Scotch  Episcopalian  Church,  for  the 
older  Church  which  Scotland  obeyed  before  the  Reformation,  a 
year  before  his  death.  His  wife  had  declined  joining  nim  ;  but 
had  raised  no  serious  opposition  to  his  taking  away  Beatrice. 
Not  trusting  much  either  her  judgment  or  her  word,  however, 
Mr.  Gordon  had  appointed  Mr.  Gervoise  his  child's  guardian, 
for  the  express  purpose  of  securing  her  religious  instruction. 
Mr.  Gervoise,  we  know,  was  a  most  anxious  and  tender  guardian  ; 
but  the  child  was  so  young  that  he  thought  it  premature  to  take 
so  much  trouble  about  her  religion,  so  he  let  her  eternal  welfare 
rest  for  a  while,  and  cultivated  her  temporal  interests  with  as- 
siduous care.  By  a  lucky  chance  Mr.  Gordon  died  convinced 
that  Mr.  Gervoise  was  a  pious  Catholic  ;  and  Mr.  Camoosie  went 
to  the  grave  with  the  certainty  that  Mr.  Gervoise  was  a  strict 
Protestant.  Mr.  Raby,  however,  as  we  see,  found  it  rather  more 
difficult  to  get  any  precise  information  on  that  head ;  and  not 
being  one  of  these  sharp,  clear-headed  men  who  will  thrust  a 


BEATRICE.  93 

question  npon  you  until  it  has  been  answered,  he  let  the  religious 
question  stand,  and  went  back  to  the  Mortimer  business.  Mr. 
Mortimer,  after  accepting  the  will,  had  suddenly  shown  an  incli- 
nation to  dispute  it.  He  contended  that  it  had  been  obtained  by 
undue  influence,  and  that  Mr.  Gervoise  had  purposely  kept  the 
late  Mr.  Carnoosie  in  ignorance  of  Mr.  Gordon's  death,  and  of 
Beatrice's  sex  and  religion.  He  had  not  yet  taken  law  proceed- 
ings, but  he  threatened  to  do  so. 

"  He  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  Mr.  Gervoise  after 
hearing  Mr.  Raby.  "  In  the  first  place,  because  he  has  no 
money  ;  in  the  second,  because  he  would  not  be  the  gainer.  Set 
the  will  aside,  and  the  property  goes  by  law  to  another  minor, 
who  on  becoming  of  age  may  dispose  of  it ;  whereas  by  the  will 
Mr.  Mortimer  has  a  chance,  the  next  to  Beatrice,  I  believe. 
Mr.  Raby,  he  will  not  do  it." 

"  Yes,  but  he  will  worry  me,"  said  Mr.  Raby.  "  Mr.  Car- 
noosie was  my  trustee,  but  he  had  not  all  this  worry.  I  ought 
to  have  declined — I  know  I  ought." 

The  dinner-bell  put  an  end  to  Mr.  Raby's  lament. 

The  gentlemen  joined  Mrs.  Gervoise  in  the  neighbouring 
apartment,  and  the  meal  began. 

"And  how  do  you  think  our  Beatrice  is  looking?"  confi- 
dentially asked  Mr.  Gervoise. 

A  delicious  Julienne  absorbed  Mr.  Raby's  attention,  for  he 
replied  in  a  breath — 

"  Oh !  very  well  indeed.  "What  a  capital  cook  you  have 
got!" 

"  Yes,  Panel  is  not  amiss.  We  want  him  for  Beatrice — a 
delicate  child,  Mr.  Raby." 

Mr.  Raby  paused,  and  seemed  to  ponder  over  Beatrice's  case. 

"  I  wonder  if  she  is  really  delicate,"  he  thought ;  "  perhaps, 
then,  she  will  die  young,  poor  little  thing,  and  I  shall  be  rid  of 
the  trust.  But  then  there  would  be  such  a  set  of  accounts  with 
that  Mortimer.  It  is  quite  horrid  to  think  of!"  And  in  his 
consternation  at  the  vision  of  trouble  following  Beatrice's  decease, 
poor  Mr.  Raby  pushed  away  his  plate. 

"  Pray  let  me  help  you  to  this  Salmis  de  Cannetons"  said 
Mr.  Gervoise. 

"  I  can't,"  respondently  replied  Mr.  Raby  ;  "  my  appetite  is 
all  gone.  Jones  told  me  it  would  be  so,  but  I  would  have  my 
own  way — it  serves  me  right ! " 

Mr.  Gervoise  took  no  notice  of  Mr.  Rabys  exasperated  and 
melancholy  mood. 


M:  BEATEICE. 

"  You  had  better  take  some  salmis,"  he  kindly  said ;  '*  I 
assure  you  nothing  helps  one  through  the  troubles  of  life  like 
substantial  food.  No  dainties ;  no,  good,  substantial,  strength- 
ening food." 

The  Salmis  de  Cannetons  looked  very  tempting,  and  Mr. 
Raby  allowed  himself  to  be  persuaded,  and  on  the  whole  ate 
rather  a  good  dinner.  Toward  the  close  of  the  meal,  Beatrice's 
trustee  began  to  waken  to  a  sense  of  observation,  in  his  dull  way, 
and  thought  that  he  had  never  seen  so  depressed  and  melancholy- 
looking  a  wife  as  Mrs.  Gervoise,  nor  so  affectionate  a  husband 
as  hers.  He  was  so  fond  of  his  wife,  and  so  careful  of  her  repose, 
mental  and  bodily,  that  he  would  scarcely  let  her  talk,  or  stir,  or 
eat.  When  she  opened  her  lips,  he  was  always  entreating  her 
to  be  calm,  and  when  she  asked  to  be  helped  to  something  on  the 
table,  he  was  sure  it  would  disagree  with  her.  Mrs.  Gervoise, 
he  informed  Mr.  Raby,  when  that  lady  had  withdrawn,  after 
receiving  the  intimation  that  she  need  not  expect  them  in  the 
drawing-room,  a  hint  which  made  Mr.  Raby  groan,  was  very 
painfully  delicate  and  excitable. 

"  You  have  no  idea  how  restless  it  makes  me,"  continued 
Mr.  Gervoise ;  "  I  cannot  sleep  at  night  when  I  begin  thinking 
of  her." 

"  Just  so.     What  capital  wine  this  is  ! " 

"  Yes,  I  ordered  it  for  Beatrice.  She  too  is  delicate.  I  do 
not  know  that  we  can  keep  her." 

Mr.  Raby  put  down  his  glass,  and  turned  pale.  Again  the 
vision  of  Beatrice's  death  and  its  attendant  evils  passed  before 
him.  He  felt  excited  and  miserable,  and  summed  up  his  feelings 
in  an  emphatic  ejaculation  : 

"  That  damned  trust ! " 

"  No,  no,"  soothingly  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  *'  we  shall  get  on 
capitally.     Take  a  little  more  wine." 

"  No*,"  gloomily  replied  Mr.  Raby  ;  "  wine  gets  up  into  my 
head.     I  could  read  and  sign  nothing  if  I  drank  another  glass." 

In  vain  Mr.  Gervoise  pressed  him.  There  was  a  stupid 
obstinacy  in  Mr.  Raby,  against  which  argument  ever  failed.  So 
the  business  began,  and  matters  went  on  pretty  much  as  usual, 
and  Mr.  Raby  was  despondent  and  miserable,  and  when  they  had 
done  for  the  evening,  again  said : 

"  It  would  worry  him  to  death." 

Mr.  Gervoise  looked  extremely  grave. 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,  you  do  not  look  well.  You  have  lost 
that  cheerful  and  open  aspect  you  had  when  you  came." 


BEATRICE.  95 

Mr.  Raby  groaned. 

"  My  dear  sir,  let  me  relieve  you.  Let  me  read  aloud,  and 
you  can  sign." 

"  No,  you  mean  well,  Mr.Gervoise,  but  people  must  not  sign 
their  name  that  way." 

"  Well,  perhaps  not.     Shall  I  cast  up  the  accounts?" 

"  No,  that  would  not  be  business-like.  I  must  do  it  myself. 
I  would  not  mind  Jones.     I  must  pay  for  it." 

"  Well,  take  a  little  wine  now,  at  least?" 

"  No,  thank  you.  I  must  go  at  twelve,  you  know,  and  if  we 
have  more  business " 

"  Nonsense,  take  a  glass." 

"  I  had  rather  not.  You  mean  well,  but  I  should  not  be 
happy  in  my  mind  to-night  if  I  were  not  sure  my  head  will  be 
quite  clear  to-morrow." 

"  Clear  to-morrow,"  thought  Mr.  Gervoise  ;  "when  is  your 
head  clear,  you  obstinate  donkey  ? " 

But  though  Mr.  Raby  did  to  a  certain  degree  live  in  a  mental 
fog,  he  was,  like  the  natives  of  foggy  climates,  accustomed  to 
that  atmosphere,  and  he  could  see  his  way  through  it.  He  went 
on  a  little  more  slowly  than  other  people,  but  he  did  go  on,  and 
that  is  as  much  as  the  best  of  us  can  do. 

That  he  did  go  on,  Mr.  Gervoise  found  the  next  morning ; 
for  whether  Mr.  Raby  had  slept  badly,  or  had  taken  something 
that  disagreed  with  him,  he  was  in  a  most  carping  humour.  He 
found  fault  with  the  matchless  Panel's  cookery,  and  hinted  pretty 
broadly  that,  as  it  would  only  send  Beatrice  to  an  early  grave, 
Monsieur  Panel  need  not  be  kept  on  Beatrice's  account,  or  at 
Beatrice's  expense. 

"  Indeed,  I  don't  see  why  we  should  not  sell  the  pictures," 
he  said,  in  his  grumbling  fashion  ;  "  they  are  useless  to  Beatrice, 
and  the  late  Mr.  Carnoosie  was  dreadfully  extravagant,  and  the 
ready  money  would  pay  off  the  mortgages." 

Sell  the  pictures  !  Mr.  Gervoise's  breath  nearly  forsook  him 
at  the  suggestion  ;  but  he  did  not  lose  his  presence  of  mind,  and 
promptly  replied : 

"  I  am  so  much  obliged  to  you  for  taking  that  matter  of  the 
pictures  in  hand.  With  your  extensive  connexion,  you  will 
dispose  of  them  easily.  They  are  so  valuable,  that  they  are 
immensely  difficult  to  sell.  I  live  in  retirement,  but  you  are 
intimate  with  all  the  aristocracy,  and  even,  I  am  told,  with  mem- 
bers of  royalty,  and  you  must  succeed.  And  we  are  so  short  of 
money,  and  the  mortgages  and  all  that  make  it  quite  a  bright 
idea.     When  will  you  see  about  it  ?  " 


96  BEATRICE. 

Mr.  Gervoise  rubbed  his  hands  French  fashion,  and  spoke 
with  a  brisk  cheerfulness  that  dismayed  Mr.  Raby.  "With  the 
same  amiable  liveliness  he  continued : 

"  Then  the  task  of  selling  old  pictures  is  just  the  thing  for 
you.  Your  well-known  integrity  will  prevent  unpleasant  doubts  ; 
for  of  course  you  wiU  have  to  prove  the  authenticity  of  every 
painting." 

"  I  am  no  judge,"  hastily  said  Mr.  Raby. 

"  You  are  a  man  of  honour,  sir,  and  when  you  say  a  Rubens 
is  a  Rubens,  you  make  a  statement  worth  all  the  declarations  of 
all  the  critics — you  pledge  your  word." 

Mr.  Raby  felt  sick  and  looked  scared. 

"  I  shall  have  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  he  said,  faintly  ;  *'  the 
trust  wiU  shorten  my  days,  but  the  pictures  would  poison  my  life. 
I  did  not  undertake  the  pictures." 

But  Mr.  Gervoise  had  conscientious  doubts  on  this  subject. 
In  his  opinion  Mr.  Raby  was  bound  to  sell  the  pictures  for 
Beatrice's  benefit,  and  he  followed  him  about  the  house,  and  from 
the  house  to  the  garden,  still  urging  him  to  take  the  pictures  in 
hand. 

"  But  I  undertook  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  Mr.  Raby,  stop- 
ping short  in  the  shady  path  along  which  he  was  walking  with 
his  tormentor ;  "I  did  not  even  know  there  were  pictures." 

"  Excuse  me,  my  dear  sir,  excuse  me,"  rejoined  Mr.  Ger- 
voise, laying  hold  of  his  button  hole  ;  "  you  undertook  a  general, 
not  a  particular  trust ;  the  pictures  were  included,  Mr.  Raby^ 
they  were  included.     Don't  you  see?" 

Mr.  Raby's  reply  to  this  inquiry  was  the  very  pertinent  ques- 
tion, whether  Mr.  Gervoise  meant  to  worry  him  to  death. 

"  Oh !  no,  no — ^not  on  any  account,"  kindly  answered  Mr. 
Gervoise  ;  "  and  indeed  since  the  subject  is  so  distasteful,  we  will 
drop  it  for  the  present,  and  renew  it  the  next  time  you  come." 

Mr.  Raby  heard  him  in  silence,  and  slowly  treasuring  up  the 
admission,  he  firmly  resolved  not  to  visit  Carnoosie  in  a  hurry. 
They  stood  still  in  the  path,  for  Mr.  Raby  was  slow  in  his  mo- 
tions, as  he  was  in  all  else  ;  and  when  once  he  stood  still,  it  was 
not  easy  to  make  him  move.  But  Mr.  Gervoise  was  the  most 
patient  of  men  in  these  matters.  If  Mr.  Raby  liked  standing, 
why,  he  liked  standing  too  ;  just  as,  if  Mr.  Raby  had  preferred 
sitting,  sitting  would  have  been  the  very  thing  for  Mr.  Gervoise. 
So  they  stood,  Mr.  Gervoise  enjoying  the  green  shade  around 
them,  and  the  view  of  red  old  Carnoosie  in  the  distance,  and  the 
glancing  fountains  and  blue  sky,  with  that  pleasant  sensuous 


BEATRICE. 


97 


enjoyment  we  all  take  in  a  fine  morning  and  a  beautiful  spot. 
But  bitteraess  filled  Mr.  Rab/s  phlegmatic  heart  as  he  looked 
around  him,  and  remembered  what  a  world  of  worry  every  object 
be  saw  had  entailed,  and  would  entail  upon  him  still.  He  hated 
that  red  old  Carnoosie,  with  all  its  windows  and  its  chimney- 
stacks  taunting  him  in  the  distance  ;  he  hated  the  fountains  in- 
solently dancing  in  the  sun,  and  mocking  him  ;  and  when  a  little 
childish  scream  was  heard,  and  a  little  figure  in  a  white  frock, 
with  a  dark  curly  head,  darted  across  the  path,  Mr.  Raby  felt 
that  he  hated  Beatrice  Gordon,  the  cause  of  all  this  woe.  He 
looked  at  her  with  a  gloomy  fixedness  which  must  have  betrayed 
his  feelings  to  Mr.  Gervoise,  if  that  gentleman  had  not  been 
absorbed  in  the  pleasant  task  of  catching  and  then  kissing  his 
little  step-daughter. 

"Let  me  go!"  she  screamed;  "let  me  go!"  and  as  Mr. 
Gervoise  did  not  let  her  go,  she  disrespectfully,  but  most  delib- 
erately, slapped  his  face.  Mr.  Gervoise  smiled,  but  Beatrice 
uttered  a  piercing  cry.  "  He  has  pinched  me  ! "  she  screamed, 
in  hot  indignation,  and  no  little  pain-,  "oh!  you  bad  man,  I 
hope  you  will  get  ugly  ! " 

As  struggles  and  kicks  accompanied  Beatrice's  cries  and  vin- 
dictive exclamation,  Mr.  Gervoise,  still  smiling  and  showing  his 
sound  white  teeth,  thought  proper  to  put  her  down. 

"  Pinched  you  !  "  he  said,  amazed  at  the  imputation  ;  "  what 
could  make  you  think  of  such  a  thing,  Beatrice  ?  " 

If  Beatrice  had  not  been  choking  with  indignation  and  grief, 
she  might  have  replied  that  a  pair  of  fingers,  strong  and  pitiless 
as  steel,  nipping  the  tender  fiesh  covered  by  her  little  puffed 
sleeve,  had  made  her  think  of  it ;  as  it  was  shef  only  sobbed  as  if 
her  heart  would  break. 

Mr.  Raby  had  looked  on,  an  amazed  and  silent  spectator  of 
this  rapid  scene ;  but  he  now  spoke  with  a  warmth  which  Mr. 
Gervoise  has  not  expected  from  the  sluggish  gentleman.  Mr. 
Raby,  looking  sternly  at  him,  asked  point  blank : 

"  Mr.  Gervoise,  why  did  you  pinch  the  child?" 

"  My  dear  sir,  I  did  not  pinch  her." 

"  You  did,"  sobbed  Beatrice,  who  felt  a  protector  in  Mr. 
Raby. 

"  Gilbert,"  blandly  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  appealing  to  his  son, 
who  had  stood  by  all  the  time,  having  come  up  with  Beatrice, 
"  Gilbert,  you  saw  all — did  I  pinch  this  little  deceitful  hypocrite  ?  " 

Mr.  Gervoise  spoke  in  a  tone  between  compassion  for  Beatrice's 
wickedness,  and  virtuous  indignation  for  himself.     Now  it  unfor- 
5 


98  BEATRICE. 

tunalely  happened  that  Gilbert  had  seen  all,  and  could  not  an- 
swer this  question  according  to  Mr.  Gervoise's  wishes,  and  re- 
mained silent. 

"  Do  not  be  afraid,  lad,  speak  the  truth,"  urged  Mr.  Gervoise, 
fixing  his  full  blue  eyes  on  his  son ;  "  nothing  like  the  truth,  my 
boy." 

Gilbert  too  had  blue  eyes,  but  eyes  large,  bright,  clear,  and 
nobly  honest.  They  met  his  father's  without  a  trace  of  fear  in 
their  look,  and  clearly  and  distinctly  the  lad  said : 

"  You  did  pinch  Beatrice." 

Mr.  Gervoise  turned  triumphantly  toward  Mr.  Raby. 

"There,  sir,  did  you  hear  that?  That,  sir,  is  education." 
And  guessing  that  Mr.  Raby  might  not  understand  his  exact 
meaning,  Mr.  Gervoise  kindly  added,  "  I  have  taught  that  lad, 
sir,  to  love  and  practise  truth  beyond  all  else,  and  you  hear  him  ; 
he  will  say  the  truth ;  I  did  pinch  Beatrice,  sir,  I  did,  to  bring 
out  this  beautiful  manifestation  of  my  boy's  veracity.  What  do 
you  think  of  that,  sir  ?  " 

He  looked  hard  at  Mr.  Raby,  who  did  not  answer ;  but  who 
in  his  dull  slow  way  thought  it  all  very  odd,  and  relished  it  but 
little.  But  Mr.  Gervoise  was  too  kind  to  press  him  for  a  reply, 
so  waving  his  hand  at  Gilbert  and  Beatrice,  "  Go  and  play,  chil- 
dren," he  said,  with  the  look  of  a  stage-father  blessing  a  young 
couple,  "  go  and  play,"  and  gently  pushing  Mr.  Raby,  he  made 
that  gentleman  walk  on  toward  Carnoosie. 

"  I  daresay  you  giiess  my  intentions,"  said  Mr.  Gervoise, 
growing  amiably  confidential  as, they  walked  on  together  ;  "that 
boy  is  the  idol  of  my  heart — ^he  is  generous,  brave,  and  true.  I 
mean  him,  God  willing,  for  our  Beatrice." 

Mr.  Raby's  mind  was  still  too  full  of  the  treatment  Beatrice 
had  received  to  heed  this  communication.     All  he  said  was  : 

"  Please  not  to  pinch  Beatrice  any  more." 

"  Not  even  to  bring  out  Gilbert's  veracity?     Certainly  not." 

The  promise  satisfied  Mr.  Raby.  He  pulled  out  his  watch, 
and  sighed  with  relief  to  see  how  late  it  was.  In  vain  Mr.  Ger- 
voise pressed  him  to  stay,  if  only  to  see  Gilbert  and  Beatrice  to- 
gether, a  beautiful  sight ;  Mr.  Raby  would  go,  and  Mr.  Gervoise 
saw  him  off".  He  saw  him  enter  the  Carnoosie  carriage,  and 
putting  up  the  footstep  with  his  own  hands,  bade  him  an  affec- 
tionate farewell.  But  Mr.  Raby  had  the  slow,  heavy,  tenacious 
John  Bull  nature  ;  with  the  smart,  lively,  volatile  John  Bull  he 
had  nothing  in  common,  and  certain  impressions  were  not  easily 
removed  from  his  mind ;  what  these  were  in  regard  to  Mr.  Ger- 


BEATRICE.  99 

volse  may  be  surmised  from  the  grumbling  ejaculation  Mr.  Raby 
uttered  as  the  carriage  drove  away. 

"  A  precious  old  rascal,  I  suspect." 

Precious  Mr.  Gervoise  certainly  was.  The  two  hemispheres 
held  nothing  so  valuable  as  his  person,  in  his  own  opinion ;  a 
rascal  some  people  thought  him,  we  are  sorry  to  say ;  but  one 
point  of  Mr.  Raby's  proposition  was  certainly  untenable :  Mr. 
Gervoise  was  not  old. 


CHAPTER  Xiy. 

As  Mr.  Gervoise  and  Mr.  Raby  walked  away,  Miss  Jameson 
came  up  out  of  breath.  Beatrice's  cheeks  were  still  covered  with 
tears,  and  Gilbert  looked  disturbed.  Miss  Jameson  arrived  at  a 
conclusion  that  did  more  credit  to  the  readiness  of  her  wit  than 
to  the  soundness  of  her  judgment. 

"  You  have  been  fighting,"  she  said. 

"  Don't  be  stupid.  Miss  Jameson,"  was  Beatrice's  irreverent 
reply ;  and  taking  Gilbert's  hand,  she  walked  away  with  great 
stateliness. 

Poor  Miss  Jameson  looked  after  them  in  sore  perplexity. 
The  rule  of  love  having  become  the  rule  of  observation,  Beatrice 
had  found  that  she  must  never  be  out  of  Miss  Jameson's  sight. 
The  natural  result  followed — ^the  child  hated  the  governess  whom 
she  had  not  loved  before.  • 

Poor  Miss  Jameson !  we  say  again,  for  she  did  not  like  the 
rule  of  observation  ;  moreover,  Mr.  Gervoise  had  never  allowed 
her  a  glimpse  of  his  manuscript  essay,  and  had  questioned  her 
so  slightly  concerning  the  peculiarities  of  Beatrice's  behaviour, 
that  Miss  Jameson  concluded  his  great  anxiety  on  that  subject 
was  over — rich  people  are  so  capricious — and  began  to  take  a 
little  more  liberty.  Thus  she  forgot  Beatrice,  whilst  she  was  in 
the  last  chapter  of  her  second  volume.  The  tale  was  charming, 
and  reminded  her  so  pleasantly  of  the  one  love  chapter  in  the 
story  of  her  youth  ! 

Twenty  years  rolled  away  from  Miss  Jameson's  life,  as  she 
sat  and  read  within  the  green  shadow  of  Beatrice's  trees.  That 
was  just  it !  That  handsome  man  of  thirty-five  coming  to  the 
father's  house,  and  watching  with  calm  but  penetrating  eyes  the 
blushing  daughter ;  sitting  by  her  gently  attentive,  though  silent, 
brilliant  and  talkative  with  others,  rather  satirical  too,  with  her 
ever  amiable  and  kind.  What  a  delicious  dream  !  What  fond 
young  hopes  haunted  the  happy  girl  for  a  whole  short  and  bliss- 


BEATRICE.  101 

ful  year !  Then  came  the  ending.  The  handsome  man  of 
thirty-five  took  a  journey  to  London,  and  came  back  with  a  wife 
of  thirty-two,  to  whom  he  had  been  engaged  ten  years — English 
fashion.  Miss  Jameson  bore  it  very  well.  She  had  a  low, 
nervous  fever,  and  recovered  it  in  time  ;  lost  a  good  deal  of  her 
hair,  which  had  been  "  glorious,"  to  use  one  of  the  handsome 
man  of  thirty-five's  epithets ;  and  looking  and  feeling,  too,  ten 
years  older  than  before  her  illness,  she  went  out  as  a  governess, 
was  tossed  from  hand  to  hand,  according  to  the  caprice  or  to  the 
necessity  of  her  employers  ;  and  survived  the  chief  actors  in  her 
little  drama,  the  handsome  man  of  thirty-five  included,  to  become 
an  inmate  of  Mr.  Gervoise's  family,  and  there  practise  the  rule 
of  love  and  the  rule  of  observation  for  the  sum  of  eighty  pounds 
a  year,  with  which  she  supported  herself  and  her  delicate  sister. 

Now,  the  handsome  man  and  the  blushing  girl,  and  the 
promises  of  the  young  love,  were  in  the  story  she  was  reading. 
They  were  there,  but  with  the  fulfilment  the  loss  of  which  had 
blighted  Miss  Jameson's  life.  The  strong  survive  such  blows, 
the  weak  never.  Some  terrible  want  there  is  evermore,  of  health, 
or  love,  or  faith,  or  principle.  It  is  not  all  who  turn  to  God, 
like  the  men  and  the  women  of  old ;  more  turn  to  the  world,  and 
worship  it  basely.  Miss  Jameson's  health  was  perfect,  and  she 
could,  being  of  a  dove-like  nature,  have  loved  again  with  facility, 
had  she  found  another  mate  ;  but  the  foundations  of  her  moral 
world,  which  »had  never  been  of  adamant,  had  been  irremediably 
shaken.  She  had  been  deceived ;  and  too  gentle  to  feel  much 
bitterness  against  the  wronger,  she  was  also  too  weak  not  to  con- 
clude that,  since  she  had  no  right  to  complain,  such  things  must 
be ;  and  if  they  were  inevitable,  so  were  some  other  crooked 
things  ;  the  weak  must  bend  to  the  strong,  or  become  their  prey  ; 
and  thus,  little  by  little,  servility  entered  a  nature  meant  for  a 
purer  destiny,  and  bowed  to  ignoble  aims  a  heart  which  might 
never  have  been  great,  but  would  have  been  good,  had  it  not  been 
profaned  for  a  man's  pastime. 

And  yet  she  did  not  like  to  watch  Beatrice.  She  did  not  like 
observation,  but  she  could  not  help  herself,  she  thought ;  and 
Beatrice's  little  insolence  acting  as  a  stimulant,  she  now  took 
heart  once  more,  and  hurried  until  she  found  the  children. 

They  were  enjoying  one  of  their  favourite  haunts,  and  Miss 
Jameson  sat  down  far  enough  not  to  disturb  their  enjoyment. 

Beautiful  and  quiet  was  the  spot  they  had  chosen.  A  little 
river  flowed  in  its  deep  and  narrow  bed,  on  to  a  mighty  river  of 
which  it  was  tributary.     The  shade  of  old  and  broad  spreading 


102  BEATEICE. 

trees  hung  over  it.  The  swift  waters  glided  on  in  green  waves, 
with  here  and  there  a  broken  patch  of  blue  sky  rippling  with 
their  motion.  Beatrice  sat  on  the  grassy  bank  idle  and  happy. 
By  her  stood  Gilbert,  angling.  The  amusement  suited  his  calm 
and  meditative  temper ;  and,  alas !  his  was  the  age  when  no 
thoughts  of  mercy  come  between  the  heart  and  its  promised 
pleasure.  It  was  delightful,  though  perfidious,  to  drop  the  line 
in  the  cool  waters,  and  it  was  exquisite  to  expect  the  little  silvery 
fish  that  was  to  come  forth  out  of  that  deep  and  silent  looking 
stream.  Beatrice  felt  it  too,  for  she  sat  watching  ^ith  interest 
and  curiosity  in  her  dark  face,  and  in  her  black  eyes.  There 
was  a  dreamy  charm  in  the  spot,  and  in  the  hour.  The  deep 
shade  of  the  trees  seemed  made  to  lull  one  to  sleep,  the  flowing 
waters  of  the  stream  to  bear  one  along.  Beatrice  felt  going 
away  very  fast,  and  with  her  went  Gilbert,  standing  motionless 
by  her  side,  and  with  both  the  rushes,  grasses,  and  blue  dragon- 
flies  that  made  a  little  world  of  wonder  and  beauty  around  them. 
Very  luxuriously  happy  felt  Beatrice,  till,  suddenly  growing  tiived 
of  her  happiness  and  wakening  from  her  dream,  she  plaintively 
called  Gilbert  to  her  side.  And  Gilbert  did  as  Beatrice  bade 
him ;  and  Beatrice,  plucking  a  long  blade  of  grass,  tickled  his 
nose,  to  her  own  great  amusement,  and  his  no  small  discomfiture  ; 
and  this  pretty  pastime  ended  in  the  despostic  little  mistress  of 
Carnoosie  saying  abruptly : 

"  Gilbert,  you  will  never  leave  Carnoosie?" 

Gilbert  was  silent. 

"  You  must  not — ^you  shan't ! "  she  cried. 

"  I  do  not  want  to  go,  Beatrice."  1 

"  Yes,  but  promise  !  " 

Before  Gilbert  could  comply  with  the  request,  Mr.  Gervoise, 
stepping  from  behind  a  tree,  appeared  before  them,  followed  by 
Miss  Jameson. 

"  Well,  children,"  he  said  gaily,  "  what  are  you  doing? — 
making  love  ? — our  Carnoosie  is  a  nice  place  for  it." 

"  Carnoosie  is  mine,"  said  Beatrice. 

"  Just  80.  Gilbert,  come  in  with  me.  Stay,  Beatrice,  it  is 
Gilbert  I  want." 

Gilbert  rose  slowly,  and  leaving  his  rod  and  fishing-tackle  in 
Beatrice's  care,  he  followed  his  father. 

"  Don't  be  long,"  was  Beatrice's  last  words ;  and  Gilbert, 
looking  back  with  a  smile,  replied  : 

"  No  longer  than  I  can  help,  Beatrice." 

These  words  probably  roused  some  angry  thoughts  in  Bea- 


BEATRICE.  103 

trice's  bosom,  for  scarcely  waiting  for  Mr.  Gervoise  to  be  out 
of  hearing,  slie  looked  at  Miss  Jameson  with  flashing  eyes,  and 
said  emphatically : 

"  I  hate  Mr.  Gervoise  !  " 

Miss  Jameson  looked  frightened  and  piteous.  She  had  just 
received  a  very  severe  talking  from  Mr.  Gervoise  for  having  left 
the  children  without  what  he  was  pleased  to  call  the  salutary  re- 
straint of  her  presence  ;  and  Beatrice's  wrathful  declaration, 
which  she  dared  not  repeat  to  her  master,  terrified  her  as  a  new 
calamity. 

"  Don't,  my  dear,  don't  talk  so  dreadfully,"  she  did  not  ven- 
ture to  say  wickedly.     "  Gilbert  will  soon  come  back." 

"  Yes,  but  I  hate  Mr.  Gervoise,"  stoutly  said  Beatrice. 

Miss  Jameson  sighed,  but  after  all  comforted  herself  with 
the  reflection  that  it  was  impossible  Mr.  Gervoise  should  learn 
through  a  third  person  how  very  naughty  Beatrice  had  been  in 
her  presence.  "  If  I  could  only  get  on  with  both  of  them," 
thought  Miss  Gameson,  "  and  keep  my  situation ;  I  shall  never 
get  such  another — never." 

Poor  Miss  Jameson  !  If  you  could  only  run  with  the  hare, 
and  bark  with  the  hound,  how  nice  and  pleasant  it  would  be  ! 

Mr.  Gervoise  took  his  son  into  one  of  the  rooms  on  the 
ground-floor  of  the  house,  by  far  the  pleasantest,  and  which  he 
called  his  study.  The  servants  were  puzzled  to  know  what  he 
studied  there,  but  Miss  Jameson  concluded  he  devoted  it  to  the 
elaboration  of  his  great  work  on  education.  If  Mr.  Gervoise 
was  an  author,  however,  he  possessed  the  virtue  of  tidiness  in  a 
degree  rarely  allotted  to  his  tribe.  No  books,  no  stray  papers, 
no  ink-stained  tables,  betrayed  his  calling.  His  study  was  a 
neat,  pleasant  and  cheerful  room,  to  which  he  had  removed  a 
few  favourite  pictures  from  the  gallery,  and  which,  without 
being  luxuriously  furnished,  possessed  every  attribute  of  comfort. 

Mr.  Gervoise  sat  down  in  a  capacious  arm-chair,  and  looking 
benevolently  at  Gilbert,  who  stood  before  him,  he  said,  in  a  ten- 
der and  feeling  tone*: 

"  My  dear  Gilbert,  I  need  not  tell  you  that  to  secure  your 
permanent  happiness  is  my  most  ardent  wish ;  to  do  so  I  must 
begin  in  your  youth.  I  need  not  remind  you  that  you  are  a 
Frenchman  by  birth,  and  that  your  future  is  in  France,  not  in 
England,  where  you  would  ever  be  considered  a  foreigner.  I 
have  accordingly  resolved  to  trust  you  once  more  to  the  care  of 
your  maternal  uncle,  who  is  pining  for  you.  Your  clothes  are 
packed  and  ready,  the  carriage  is  waiting,  and  John  shall  ac- 


104:  BEATEICE. 

company  you  to  Newhaven  and  see  you  on  board  a  Dieppe 
steamer.  On  landing,  you  will  find  your  affectionate  uncle  ready 
to  receive  you." 

Perhaps  Gilbert  thought  that  his  father  took  a  strange  way 
of  showing  his  affection — that  it  was  not  much  like  paternal  love 
to  send  him  away  to  be  reared  by  a  brother-in-law  for  whom  he 
cared  little  ;  but  he  neither  remonstrated  nor  remarked,  he  only 
asked,  "  Can  I  see  Beatrice  before  I  go,  and  bid  her  good-bye?" 

"  No,  my  dear  boy.  No,  Beatrice  is  an  excitable  child,  we 
must  spare  her.     You  must  go  at  once,  my  dear  Gilbert." 

Gilbert  could  scarcely  hide  his  distress,  but  pride  checked 
any  outward  manifestation  of  his  feelings.  His  lips  quivered, 
his  features  worked,  but  he  betrayed  no  other  sign  of  emotion. 

"  My  poor  little  Beatrice ! "  he  sighed ;  and  his  thoughts 
flew  back  to  the  river  by  which  he  had  left  her  sitting,  and  to 
the  "  Don't  be  long"  with  which  she  had  seen  him  go. 

"Beatrice  will  fret  a  while,"  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  "but  not 
long ;  your  brother  Antony  is  coming,  and  will  comfort  her,  I 
have  no  doubt." 

Some  parents  like  to  stimulate  their  children  by  jealousy ; 
perhaps  Mr.  Gervoise  belonged  to  this  class,  and  mentioned  his 
younger  son,  to  give  the  elder  one  a  useful  prick ;  but  Gilbert 
was  generous,  and  he  simply  and  truly  replied : 

"  I  hope  he  will.     I  do  not  want  Beatrice  to  be  unhappy." 

"  Of  cou]rse  not.  And  now,  my  dear  boy,  I  really  think  it  is 
time  to  go." 

It  was  time,  and  nothing  occurred  to  delay  Gilbert's  depar- 
ture. Every  thing  was  ready,  and  he  had  not  even  to  bid  his 
stepmother  good-bye.  Mrs.  Gervoise  too  was  sensitive,  and 
could  not  have  borne  the  emotion  of  parting  from  Gilbert.  So 
at  least  her  husband  kindly  said. 

Mr.  Gervoise  had  concerted  his  scheme  for  the  sudden  and 
private  departure  of  Gilbert,  with  tolerable  care  against  all  un- 
pleasant contingencies ;  but  there  was  one  he  was  unable  to 
avoid.  In  vain  had  he  left  Beatrice  in  Miss  Jameson's  keeping, 
and  given  that  lady  private  instructions  to  detain  her  where  she 
was.  Beatrice  had  a  strong  will,  and  Miss  Jameson  a  weak  one. 
To  her  commands  the  governess  forgot  to  add  force ;  she  was 
stout,  too,  and  could  not  overtake  her  pupil ;  once  this  young 
lady  had  begun  running  in  the  direction  of  Carnoosie,  and  pre- 
cisely as  Gilbert  was  leaving  the  house,  Beatrice  saw  him ;  she 
saw  John,  too,  and  the  carriage,  and  uttering  a  piercing  cry,  she 
sprang  toward  her  friend.  Before  Mr.  Gervoise  could  interfere, 
Beatrice  was  sobbing  in  the  arms  of  his  son. 


BEATRICE.  105 

"  You  must  not  go  !  you  shall  not  go  ! "  she  cried. 

"  I  must,  Beatrice.     My  father  wishes  me  to  go." 

She  turned  round  and  looked  piteously  at  Mr.  Gervoise. 

"  Don't  let  him  go — don't !  "  she  prayed. 

"  He  must  go,  my  love." 

"  He  shan't !  "  she  cried,  stamping  her  foot 

"  Yes,  yes,  he  shall.  Carnoosie  is  yours,  but  Gilbert  is 
mine." 

Beatrice  felt  the  taunt,  and  so  did  Gilbert ;  he  kissed  her, 
then  steadily  entered  the  carriage,  which,  after  driving  Mr.  Raby 
to  the  station,  had  come  back  for  him.  Beatrice  stood  in  mute 
grief,  looking  after  him  with  her  large  black  eyes  ;  but  when  she 
saw  him  enter  the  vehicle  that  was  to  bear  him  away,  and  saw 
John  climb  up  on  the  box,  she  clapped  her  hands  in  the  wildness 
of  her  grief,  and  again  sprang  forward. 

"  Drive  on ! "  cried  Mr.  Gervoise ;  and  before  Beatrice 
reached  it,  the  carriage  was  rattling  down  the  road,  raising  a 
cloud  of  dust  on  its  way.  Beatrice  ran  on  a  few  steps,  and  even 
before  Mr.  Gervoise  overtook  her,  she  had  felt  the  hopelessness 
of  her  attempt,  and  in  her  despair  she  had  flung  herself  on  the 
roadside ;  and  there  she  lay,  sobbing  bitterly,  and  obstinately 
resisting  all  her  guardian's  coaxing  entreaties  to  get  up  and  go 
in.  Mr.  Gervoise,  perceiving  how  fruitless  were  his  efforts, 
suddenly  changed  his  tone. 

"  Miss  Gordon,"  he  said,  "  if  you  do  not  return  to  the  house 
of  your  own  accord,  I  shall  make  you." 

Beatrice  looked  up.  She  read  his  face.  It  was  resolute  and 
"  wicked,"  as  she  said  afterwards  ;  and  Beatrice  had  sense  and 
pride  enough  to  submit.  She  rose  and  walked  to  the  house,  her 
heart  swelling  with  even  more  sorrow  at  Gilbert's  departure  than 
anger  against  his  father.  From  one  of  the  upper  windows  of 
the  old  brick  mansion,  she  saw  the  pale,  sad  face  of  Mrs.  Ger- 
voise looking  down  at  her  with  a  wistful  gaze.  The  poor  lady 
had  beheld  Beatrice's  passionate  grief,  and  her  heart  had  bled  to 
feel  that  she  could  no  longer  help  her  child.  As  Beatrice  en- 
tered the  house,  Mr.  Gervoise  said  to  her  : 

"  Don't  fret,  my  little  love  ;  my  second  son,  Antony,  is  com- 
ing ;  he  is  about  your  own  age,  and  you  and  he  will  be  great 
friends — eh,  Beatrice  ?  " 

Beatrice  turned  up  her  little  flushed  and  angry  face,  and 
checking  her  tears  to  stare  at  Mr.  Gervoise,  she  said : 

"  I  hate  Antony — I  hate  him !  " 

Mr.  Gervoise  laughed. 
5* 


106  BEATKICE. 

"  Ve — ^ry  naugMy — ve — ry  naughty  !  "  he  said. 

"  And  I  hate  you,"  added  Beatrice,  without  raising  her  voice, 
and  speaking  in  an  even,  steady  tone,  most  unchildlike. 

Mr.  Gervoise  looked  thoughtful,  and  knit  his  brows.  He 
did  not  want  Beatrice  Gordon,  the  mistress  of  Carnoosie,  to  hate 
him.  He  would  rather  have  been  loved  by  that  young  lady ; 
for  he  knew  this  much  of  love,  that  it  is  a  very  convenient  means 
of  ruling  the  human  heart ;  but  as  misfortune  would  have  it  that 
he  could  not  inspire  love,  and  even  that  he  won  hatred,  Mr. 
Gervoise  had  frequently  found  it  expedient  to  create  fear. 
Beatrice,  however,  he  found  it  very  hard  to  conquer. 

She  was  rich,  and  not  a  poor  little  nobody.  People  would 
be  sure  to  interfere — Mr.  Raby  or  Mr.  Mortimer — if  he  carried 
matters  with  too  high  a  hand.  So  she  must  be  ruled,  or  Mr. 
Gervoise  would  get  into  trouble.  But  how  rule  one  whose 
whole  being  had  from  the  first  risen  up  against  him,  armed  by 
the  instinct  of  childhood  ?  There  was  the  difficulty.  Mr.  Ger- 
voise had  hoped  to  make  Gilbert  useful ;  but  though  Gilbert 
held  over  Beatrice  the  power  which  should  have  belonged  to  his 
father,  he  was  too  unmanagable  himself  to  be  available.  This 
changed  Mr.  Gervoise's  views.  Gilbert  was  mute  but  obstinate, 
Beatrice  outspoken  and  violent,  and  both  were  against  him. 
These  two  enemies  must  not  grow  up  side  by  side,  supporting 
each  other  in  their  antagonism.  Antony  must  take  Gilbert's 
place,  and  Beatrice  and  Gilbert  grow  up  apart,  divided  by  land 
and  sea,  and  foreign  race  and  foreign  speech. 

Bitter  and  sore  was  Beatrice's  heart  the  whole  of  that  long 
and  unhappy  day.  Mr.  Gervoise  had  given  strict  orders  that 
she  should  be  left  to  herself.  He  did  not  allow  his  wife  to  leave 
her  room,  and  he  forbade  Miss  Jameson  to  say  a  word  to  the 
erring  mistress  of  Carnoosie.  His  object  was  two-fold :  he 
wanted  to  punish  Beatrice,  and  he  also  hoped  to  make  the  so- 
ciety of  Antony  more  acceptable  to  her  by  its  contrast  with  her 
previous  isolation.  But  again  Mr.  Gervoise  was  doomed  to  dis- 
appointment and  defeat.  Instead  of  resenting  the  solitude  in 
which  she  was  left,  Beatrice  evidently  liked  it.  She  sat  and 
moped  within  the  house  the  whole  day  long,  heavy,  listless,  and 
unhappy.  She  would  touch  no  dinner — ^not  through  stubborn- 
ness or  pride,  but  because  she  was  too  full  of  her  grief  to  feel 
hunger.  Toward  evening  the  sound  of  carriage  wheels  roused 
her.  A  wild  and  sudden  hope  made  her  think  that  Gilbert  was 
coming  back ;  she  ran  out  of  the  house,  and  stood  on  the  stone 
steps,  looking  eagerly ;  she  saw  the  carriage,  and  John  on  the 
box,  and  a  lad  within. 


BEATEICE.  107 

"  It  is  ! — it  is  ! "  slie  cried. 

The  boy  looked  roiind.  It  was  Gilbert's  brother  Antony, 
whom  Mr.  Gervoise  was  welcoming  with  paternal  tenderness. 
Beatrice  walked  back  into  the  house,  and  went  up  to  her  room. 
She  had  not  been  there  long,  when  a  tap  at  the  door  preceded 
the  entrance  of  Miss  Jameson.  She  came  in  smiling,  followed 
by  Beatrice's  new  companion. 

The  two  brothers  were  alike  ;  but  theirs  was  an  unpleasant, 
not  a  genial  likeness.  They  had  the  same  fair  hair,  the  same 
blue  eyes  and  fresh  complexion ;  but  Antony's  features,  though 
far  more  delicate  than  Gilbert's,  were  by  no  means  so  open  and 
honest  in  meaning.  There  was  something  effeminate  and  cruel 
in  this  boy's  face,  something  which  would  have  saddened  a  phys- 
iognomist and  distressed  a  true  believer.  Was  Antony  bom 
with  perverted  instinct,  was  he  a  free  moral  agent,  or  one  of 
those  unhappy  beings  of  whom  we  never  know  how  far  they  fol- 
low their  nature  or  suppress  its  nobler  impulses  ?  Yet  he  was 
handsome.  There  was  beauty  in  his  clear  profile  and  short  upper 
lip,  and  curved  chin,. and  softness  in  his  large  blue  eyes.  He 
was  a  fair  young  tiger,  with  well-proportioned  limbs,  and  a  deli- 
cate skin  finely  stroked.  And  Antony  had  the  softness  too  of 
the  feline  race ;  his  father  had  tutored  him  below,  briefly,  but 
most  significantly,  and  the  boy  came  prepared  to  win  Beatrice's 
heart. 

"My  dear,  here  is  your  young  friend,"  gently  said  Miss 
Jameson. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Beatrice?"  said  Antony,  and  he  held  out 
a  friendly  hand. 

"  Go  away ! "  indignantly  replied  Beatrice  ;  "I  want  Gil- 
bert." 

The  young  tiger  laughed,  and  showed  teeth  of  pearl. 

"  Gilbert  is  in  Normandy,"  he  said ;  "  such  an  ugly  old  place 
the  Chateau  is  ! " 

This  speech  roused  all  Beatrice's  wrath.  She  burst  into 
angry  sobs  and  tears,  and  was  so  violent  and  unamiable,  that 
Miss  Jameson  left  the  room,  followed  by  Antony,  who  bestowed 
a  fearful  grimace  on  Beatrice,  by  way  of  parting  salutation. 

"  This  must  be  put  a  stop  to,"  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  frowning 
as  he  heard  Miss  Jameson's  report ;  "  I  have  been  lenient  to  folly 
and  weakness.     Beatrice  must  go  to  bed.  Miss  Jameson." 

Miss  Jameson  agreed  with  Mr.  Gervoise  that  Beatrice  must 
go  to  bed,  and  she  went  back  to  Beatrice's  room  and  saw  the 
sentence  put  into  execution  forthwith.     Beatrice  offered  no  re- 


108  BEATEICE. 

sistance.  She  submitted  with  quiet  apathy,  and  heard  Miss 
Jameson's  lecture  in  scornful  silence. 

And  now  Beatrice  is  in  her  little  white  bed,  alone,  fretting. 
A  pleasant  room  is  that  which  belongs  to  the  mistress  of  Car- 
noosie,  large  and  loftj ;  but  Beatrice  does  not  appreciate  the 
blessings  of  her  lot,  she  only  sees  its  dark  aspect  and  its  trials. 
Drearily  she  watches  through  the  windows  that  face  her  bed  the 
changes  of  the  sky.  The  sun  has  set,  the  moon  is  rising.  On 
the  oaken  floor  shine  two  checked  squares  of  a  light  both  soft  and 
pale.  At  another  time  Beatrice  would  like  that  blue  sea  on 
which  the  fair  vessel  of  the  moon  is  softly  floating ;  she  would 
like  the  squares  on  the  floor,  and  watch  them  curiously  and  with 
inquisitive  wonder,  but  now  Beatrice  only  feels  her  grief.  She 
does  not  seek  to  analyze  it,  she  is  too  childish  still,  but  she  feels 
it  all  the  more  keenly  that  thought  does  not  divert  her  from  it. 

"  Gilbert !  dear  Gilbert !"  such  is  the  cry  of  her  poor  little 
aching  heart.  Suddenly,  though  very  softly,  the  door  of  Beatrice's 
room  opened.  Beatrice  looked;  was  it  Miss  Jameson's  that 
white  figure  which  stole  softly  across  the  moonlit  floor?  No,  it 
was  not  Miss  Jameson's ;  but  Beatrice  was  not  frightened,  for 
she  knew  her  mother,  Mr.  Gervoise.'s  wife,  who  had  come  to 
comfort  her  child  by  stealth  and  in  secret.  She  bent  over  and 
kissed  her,  and  feeling  the  tears  on  her  little  feverish  cheeks,  she 
whispered  fondly : 

"  Don't  fret,  my  darling— -don't ! " 

Beatrice's  answer  was  to  clasp  her  mother's  neck  and  to  sob 
piteously.  Mrs.  Gervoise  seemed  much  frightened,  as  well  as 
much  moved. 

"  My  dearest  darling,"  she  entreated  fearfully,  "  try  and  be 
quiet.     You  might  be  heard.     Try  and  be  quiet,  for  my  sake." 

"  Beatrice  felt  her  trembling,  and  understood  her  fear.  It 
gave  her  grief  a  sudden  check.  She  looked  at  her  mother's  pale 
face,  which  looked  paler  in  the  moonlight,  and  very  earnestly 
she  said : 

"  Don't  be  afraid,  mamma.     I  shall  take  care  of  you." 

Mrs.  Gervoise  clasped  her  hands. 

"  You  cannot,"  she  said,  "  you  are  but  a  little  child.  You 
cannot,  Beatrice ! " 

"  I  will ! "  resolutely  replied  Beatrice,  "  don't  be  afraid,  I  will 
take  care  of  you ;  besides,  Carnoosie  is  mine,  you  know." 

Mrs.  Gervoise  did  not  answer.  She  swiftly  moved  away, 
and  left  the  room  by  one  door,  whilst  Miss  Jameson  entered  it 
by  the  other. 


BEATEICE.  109 

"  With  whom  were  you  talking?"  sharply  asked  that  lady. 

Beatrice's  reply  was  more  concise  than  polite. 

"  Miss  Jameson,"  she  said,  "it  is  no  use  worrying  me— 
good  night." 

Beatrice  rolled  herself  in  a  ball  in  order  to  fall  asleep,  and 
Miss  Jameson  withdrew,  much  puzzled.  Her  first  resolve  was 
a  wise  one — she  would  try  and  please  the  mistress  of  Camoosie. 
Her  second  determination  was  not  very  compatible  with  it — she 
would  watch  Beatrice,  without  seeming  to  do  so. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

The  Autumn  sun  is  shining  in  tlie  orchard  of  Carnoosie. 
The  apple  trees  are  bending  to  the  earth  their  fruit-laden  boughs, 
and  Beatrice  Gordon,  now  a  stately  young  maiden,  is  gathering 
the  ripe  peaches  from  the  wall,  and  daintily  putting  them  one  by 
one  in  the  basket  on  her  arm.  Beatrice  is  altered  ;  the  child  has 
passed  into  the  girl,  and  the  girl  is  both  brilliant  and  pretty  of 
aspect.  The  brown  face  is  now  of  a  delicate  olive  hue,  with  a 
bloom  of  twenty  springs  upon  it.  The  dark  eyes  shine  with  a 
deeper  light  from  beneath  the  rim  of  the  round  straw  hat,  and 
the  fine  Italian  features  have  the  seriousness  ever  ready  to  break 
out  into  mirth  of  Beatrice's  Italian  kin.  Her  long  dark  curls, 
which  she  has  kept  in  spite  of  the  prevailing  fashion,  give  her 
mobile  face  something  more  changeful  still.  Just  now  Beatrice 
looks  neither  grave  nor  gay.  She  seems  intent  on  her  peaches — 
she  seems,  but  is  not.  She  knows  that  Miss  Jameson  is  observ- 
ing at  a  distance,  but  she  does  not  care. 

These  two  have  not  got  on  very  well  together.  The  rule  of 
observation  has  not  been  more  successful  than  the  rule  of  love, 
and  it  has  had  this  drawback,  that  Beatrice  detected  it,  and  de- 
spised her  governess.  Indeed,  Miss  Jameson's  post  was  no  sine- 
cure, for  Mr.  Gervoise's  manner  having  been  such  as  to  suggest 
to  Mrs.  Gervoise  that  if  she  were  to  die  this  lady  might  succeed 
her,  she  had  shown  a  small,  spiteful  jealousy,  which,  united  to 
Beatrice's  cool  contempt,  had  made  Miss  Jameson's  position 
rather  an  unpleasant  one.  Then  Beatrice  would  not  learn  ;  with 
the  subtle  perversity  of  childhood  she  had  found  out  the  weak 
point  of  Miss  Jameson's  knowledge — ^botany.  In  astronomy 
Miss  Jameson  was  secure,  she  could  call  every  star  by  its  name, 
and  tell  you  its  exact  breadth  and  depth  ;  but  the  green  covering 
which  nature  throws  over  this  brown  earth  of  ours  she  trod  on 
in  ignorant  unconsciousness  of  its  usea  and  mysteries.     When 


BEATRICE.  Ill 

Beatrice  discovered  this,  she  threw  up  her  books,  said  Mr.  Ray, 
Gilbert's  tutor,  knew  botany,  and  that  she  would  ask  Mr.  Raby 
to  get  her  Mr.  Ray.  Mr.  Raby  had  no  power  to  interfere,  but 
Mr.  Gervoise  both  hated  and  feared  him.  Moreover,  he  asked 
no  better  than  please  Beatrice  by  spending  her  money  for  her  ; 
so  Miss  Jameson  kept  her  post  for  observation,  no  doubt,  and 
Beatrice's  education  was  virtually  committed  to  Mr.  Ray. 

Happy  were  the  hours  Beatrice  spent  with  him,  acquiring 
knowledge  both  varied  and  deep.  It  was  her  halcyon  time,  and 
the  first  bright  spot  in  Mr.  Ray's  sad  life.  Untimely  scruples 
had  forbidden  him  to  take  the  living  in  the  gift  of  his  family,  and 
for  which  he  had  been  reared ;  and  a  mild  irresolution,  which 
was  both  the  charm  and  the  fault  of  his  nature,  would  not  let 
him  leave  the  communion  in  which  he  was  born.  He  remained 
in  it,  doubting  and  hesitating ;  living  in  a  spiritual  mist  which 
made  other  sorrows  heavier  to  bear.  His  friends  disowned  him, 
the  girl  whom  he  loved  married  another,  one  wiser  in  his  gener- 
ation, who  gratefully  received  the  living  Mr.  Ray  had  declined. 
Very  meekly  he  bore  all  this.  He  came  to  Carnoosie,  settled 
there,  and  lived  by  teaching,  until  the  death  of  an  elder  brother 
gave  him  a  handsome  competency,  and  the  company  of  a  favour- 
ite sister. 

To  this  shy,  solitary  man  a  pupil  like  Beatrice,  bright,  clever, 
lively,  and  ambitious  to  learn,  was  a  Godsend.  An  affection — 
paternal  in  its  innocence — lover-like  in  its  tenderness — sprang  in 
his  heart.  He  taught  her  all  he  knew,  and  especially  did  he 
teach  her  literature,  ancient  and  modern. 

"  Literature,"  he  often  said  to  her,  "  is  the  fairest  product  of 
man's  thought.  Science  and  art  are  but  one-sided  conceptions, 
noble  in  their  way,  but  narrow.  Literature  is  all  in  all  to  such 
as  know  how  to  sound  its  depths." 

Into  these  depths  he  did  his  best  to  lead  Beatrice.  Ah  !  what 
pleasant  and  flowery  paths  did  Mr.  Ray  reveal  to  the  eager  girl 
in  the  fair  fields  of  classic  love  !  All  the  bees  of  Hymettus  yielded 
their  sweetness  at  his  call.  From  that  cahn  and  noble  world  of 
ancient  song  he  led  her  gently  into  the  less  peaceful  but  more 
subtle  and  penetrating  regions  of  the  early  poets,  Italian  and 
English.  With  these  both  Mr.  Ray  and  Beatrice  lingered  long : 
Petrarch,  Dante,  Chaucer,  Spenser,  Shakespeare,  and  Milton,  a 
goodly  company.  When  these  princes  and  lords  of  poetry  were 
exhausted,  Mr.  Ray  taught  Beatrice  to  appreciate  the  gentle 
minor  spirits  who  in  every  age  shine  with  mild  star-like  radiance 
near  the  great  planets.     And  thus  step  by  step  he  led  her  down 


112  BEATEICE. 

to  our  own  days,  culling  with  careful  hand  all  the  blossoms,  and 
avoiding  all  the  dangerous  snares  and  pitfalls  in  the  way. 

Wonder  not  that  these  lessons,  which  were  very  sweet  to  Mr. 
Ray,  were  heaven  to  Beatrice.  Her  life  was  but  a  sad  one. 
Mr.  Gervoise's  power  was  both  cruel  and  complete,  and  it  had 
been  exercised  unsparingly.  The  haughty  young  mistress  of 
Carnoosie  had  not  been  ill-used,  her  health  had  been  attended  to, 
she  had  had  a  governess,  Mr.  Ray,  and  expensive  masters  from 
London,  to  make  her  accomplished  as  well  as  learned.  She  had 
a  maid,  too,  and  rich  dresses  and  jewels — on  all  of  which  Mr. 
Gervoise  had  realized  handsome  profits,  as  was  but  fair  ;  but,  for 
all  that,  Beatrice  had  not  been  happy,  and  her  very  heart  and 
soul  liad  groaned  beneath  the  yoke. 

Beatrice  was  sociable,  and  she  lived  in  the  deepest  solitude. 
There  was  a  Roman  who  wished  for  a  glass  house,  but  Mr.  Ger- 
voise only  sighed  to  think  how  thin  and  transparent  were  brick 
and  mortar.  No  one  ever  came  to  Carnoosie,  and  its  inmates 
rarely  left  it.  This  unnatural  seclusion  influenced  Beatrice's 
whole  character.  It  gave  premature  concentration  to  a  mind 
naturally  vigorous,  and  severity  to  a  temper  which,  though 
impetuous,  was  also  fond.  Her  life  was  a  battle,  in  which, 
though  ever  conquered,  she  never  confessed  herself  defeated,  and 
what  life  was  this  for  a  handsome  girl,  a  rich  one,  too,  of  twenty? 

Wonder  not,  therefore,  that  Beatrice,  reared  near  her  sickly 
mother,  and  the  sport-loving  Antony,  surrounded  by  servants 
who  were  also  spies,  bitterly  conscious  of  her  wrongs,  though 
proudly  silent  under  them,  found  exquisite  solace  in  Mr.  Ray's 
lessons  and  companionship. 

There  are  many  issues  to  Carnoosie,  and  if  you  leave  j[t  as 
Beatrice  did,  by  that  lower  orchard  door,  you  enter  a  pleasant 
little  village,  hamlet,  rather,  with  a  straggling  street,  and  low 
houses  and  blooming  gardens  in  front  of  them,  and  children 
rather  more  rosy  than  the  flowers  meeting  you  at  every  corner. 
A  church  all  ivy,  a  little  grassy  churchyard  with  many  hillocks 
and  few  stones,  a  shining  pond  where  geese  and  ducks  are  cack- 
ling, and  a  small  green  common,  on  which  a  meditative  donkey 
is  grazing,  complete  the  picture,  lit  by  bright  gleams  of  sunshine, 
and  set  off  by  deep  masses  of  shade  and  foliage  in  the  back- 
ground. 

Many  were  the  nods  Beatrice  gave,  and  many  were  the  curt- 
seys she  received  as  she  walked  along  with  her  basket  on  her 
arm,  and  her  round  straw  hat  shading  her  handsome  dark  face. 
Beatrice's  allowance  of  pocket  money  was  not  large,  but  little  of 


BEATEIOE.  113 

it  was  there  that  did  not  go  to  the  inmates  of  those  cottages — 
and  they  knew  it  well.  They  loved  her,  and  they  blessed  her, 
and  this  bond  of  love  was  the  only  bond  between  them. 

Beatrice's  estate  lay  at  the  other  end  of  Carnoosie,  and  her 
tenants  were  farmers,  not  cottagers. 

This  hamlet,  a  small  possession,  belonged  to  Antony  Gervoise. 
It  had  been  detached  from  the  estate  in  favour  of  a  second  son 
of  the  Carnoosies  a  hundred  years  before,  and  from  that  second 
son,  through  his  mother,  Antony  was  descended.  This  was  his 
tie  of  kindred  with  Beatrice,  and  the  origin  of  Mr.  Gervoise's 
acquaintance  with  Mr.  Carnoosie.  But,  for  once,  Beatrice  did 
not  visit  any  of  her  humble  friends.  She  went  on  until  she  had 
left  the  last  house  behind  her.  A  little  farther  she  found  a  pretty 
cottage  surrounded  by  green  fields.  This  was  Mr.  Ray's  house, 
the  haven  in  which  he  had  at  length  found  rest. 

There  was  wisdom  and  truth  in  the  dreams  of  our  ancestors. 
We  all  have  a  bit  of  the  peasant  nature  in  us,  and  from  the  days 
of  the  Latin  poet  downwards,  we  have  envied  the  tillers  of  an- 
cestral acres,  and  coveted  our  share  of  mother  earth.  Whatever 
form  the  dream  may  take,  pastoral  or  agricultural,  it  is  there. 
Damon  and  Phyllis  were  but  the  myths  of  that  unfulfilled  desire. 
For  evermore  man  has  longed  to  sit  down  by  babbling  streams 
and  listen  to  birds  that  never  sang  in  cages.  Give  him  sheep  to 
watch  idly  in  a  landscape  as  unreally  sweet  as  any  Claude  ever 
painted ;  give  him  ancient  fields,  or  virgin  prairies,  or  backwood 
demesnes  to  make  fruitful  according  to  the  century  he  lives  in, 
and  in  his  dream  at  least  he  is  content.  Failing  all  these,  give 
him  the  reality  of  a  cottage  near  a  quiet  village,  a  cottage  stand- 
ing alone  with  plenty  of  wide  green  around  it ;  a  garden  where 
the  gooseberry  bush  will  thrive  next  the  rose  ;  give  him  rabbits, 
and  a  few  hens,  and  new-laid  eggs,  and  he  rejoices  in  a  country 
life,  and  feels  king  of  his  little  world. 

For  this  is  the  great  secret,  after  all.  Who  possesses  land 
in  a  city  ?  Your  house  may  be  your  own,  but  you  generally  pay 
ground  rent.  Then  you  have  neighbours  troublesome  and  im- 
pertinent ;  that  isolated  sovereignty  which  man  dreams  of  when 
he  flies  to  the  country,  is  not  to  be  had  in  a  town  for  love  or 
money.  Kings  and  queens  pine  for  it  in  vain.  Is  there  not 
always  a  jealous  public  to  grudge  them  their  garden  walks,  or  a 
loving  public  anxious  to  share  them  ?  But  what  the  city,  with 
all  its  delights,  cannot  give  even  to  the  great  and  few,  the  country 
bestows  freely  on  the  humble  and  the  many.  A  few  fields  sep- 
arate you  from  mankind,  and  give  you  the  sense  of  happy  inde- 


114:  BEATEICE. 

pendence,  for  which,  we  long  in  youth,  and  toward  which  we 
turn  in  age. 

Such  a  cottage  was  Mr.  Ray's.  It  had  a  large  garden,  an 
outhouse,  a  few  fields,  a  popular  a,venue,  a  paddock,  and  a  dairy. 
Here,  for  the  last  six  months,  had  resided  Beatrice's  teacher  and 
friend.  Tardy  prosperity  had  given  these  quiet  enjoyments  to 
his  sad  life,  over  which  they  now  shone  with  the  pale  glow  of  a 
calm  autumn  evening.  His  other  pupils  he  had  given  up,  but  he 
had  kept  Beatrice  ;  she  was  not  a  pupil,  but  the  apple  of  his  eye. 
Daily  they  spent  in  the  old  library  of  Carnoosie  a  happy  hour, 
which  often  lengthened  into  three.  This  day,  however,  Beatrice 
came  to  him,  for  he  was  unwell,  and  could  not  go  out. 

Miss  Ray  was  in  the  garden  gathering  flowers.  She  looked 
up  on  hearing  Beatrice  open  the  gate,  and  her  face  brightened 
into  a  smile,  and  greeted  her  with  a  simple  warmth  which  was 
the  basis  of  her  character.  Guilelessness  was  written  in  Miss 
Ray's  face,  though  it  was  a  face  of  fifty-five,  and  guileless  Miss 
Ray  was  to  the  heart's  core.  Faith  in  God  and  man  was  her 
prevailing  and  gentle  attribute.  Do  not  tell  Miss  Ray  of  this 
world's  wickedness ;  she  believes  in  it,  of  course,  for  she  reads 
her  Bible  and  the  newspaper,  but  she  has  never  seen  it.  She 
knows  that  there  have  been  fearful  sinners,  and  that  there  are 
murderers  who  move  about  with  the  face  and  aspect  of  other 
men ;  but  ask  Miss  Ray  for  no  more  than  that  abstract  knowl- 
edge. Such  as  it  is,  it  has  often  made  her  unhappy,  and  given 
her  sleepless  nights. 

"  How  is  Mr.  Ray?"  asked  Beatrice. 

"  Better,  my  dear  ;  and  how  is  dear  Mr.  Gervoise  ?  he  looked 
poorly  yesterday." 

Beatrice  winced  to  hear  dear  Mr.  Gervoise's  name ;  habit 
could  not  reconcile  her  to  the  strange  blindness  of  both  Mr.  and 
Miss  Ray  concerning  Mr.  Gervoise's  real  character.  True,  he 
had  done  much  to  conciliate  their  good  will,  and  secure  their 
esteem  ;  but  still  how  could  they  read  him  so  ill  ? 

She  answered  coldly ; 

"  Mr.  Gervoise  is  well,  thank  you.  And  where  is  Mr.  Ray? 
I  have  brought  him  some  peaches." 

"  How  kind  of  Mr.  Gervoise,"  said  Miss  Ray,  with  a  bright 
smile  ;  "  he  said  yesterday  he  would  send  my  dear  brother  some." 

Beatrice  was  silent.  Mr.  Gervoise  had  probably  heard  her 
questioning  the  gardener  concerning  the  ripeness  of  the  peaches, 
and  thus  coolly  attributed  to  himself  the  merit  of  a  gift  he  grudged 
in  his  heart,  but  dared  not  prevent. 


BEATRICE.  115 

"  My  dear  brother  will  be  so  glad  to  see  you,*'  continued 
Miss  Ray,  preceding  Beatrice  along  the  path  that  led  to  the 
house  ;  "  he  is  so  low." 

"  He  has  no  cause,  has  he?"  asked  Beatrice. 

"  The  old  cause,  my  dear,"  sighed  Miss  Ray.  "  He  never 
got  over  that  disappointment  about  Miss  Jones,  and  never  will. 
There  are  sorrows  men  never  do  get  over,  my  dear." 

Ah !  but  they  do,  Miss  Ray,  and  so  do  women ;  but  never 
mind — such  is  your  simple  faith.     Keep  it  fast,  and  hold  it  dear. 

Beatrice's  scepticism  did  not  reach  matters  of  which  she 
knew  nothing,  so  she  nodded  sagaciously,  and  thought  how  lovely 
Miss  Jones  must  have  been.    She  could  not  help  saying  as  much. 

"  Oh  dear,  no  ! "  repUed  Miss  Ray ;  "  she  was  rather  plain, 
in  my  opinion." 

"  But  very  fascinating,  I  suppose?" 

"  Not  to  most  people.     She  was  quiet." 

"  Not  brilliant  and  intellectual?" 

"  Oh  !  not  at  all." 

"  Well,  but,  Miss  Ray,  what  could  charm  him  so  ?  " 

"  My  dear — ^he  loved  her  ;  I  really  can  tell  you  no  more." 

Love  was  not  one  of  those  abstract  sciences  in  which  Mr. 
Ray  instructed  Beatrice,  but  she  thought,  as  she  followed  Miss 
Ray  in  the  cottage,  what  a  wonderful  and  perplexing  thing  this 
love  must  be,  which,  without  beauty,  fascination,  or  intellect, 
could  give  a  life-long  sorrow  to  Mr.  Ray ! 

Whatever  Miss  Ray  might  say,  and  Beatrice  fancy,  Mr.  Ray 
was  not  thinking  of  Miss  Jones.  The  shadow  of  that  sorrow 
still  hung  over  his  life,  but  the  sorrow  itself  was  buried  and 
dead,  to  rise  no  more ;  not  even  on  the  great  judgment-day. 
He  sat  near  the  parlour  window  reading  ;  and  that  quiet  room, 
prettily  but  simply  furnished,  the  table  covered  with  books,  the 
open  window  framing  a  grand  shining  landscape,  and  the  medi- 
tative figure  of  the  student,  with  his  grey  hair  falling  in  heavy 
waves  around  his  pale  and  emaciated  face,  struck  Beatrice's 
artist  eye  as  a  calm  but  exquisite  picture. 

"  Mr.  Ray,"  she  cried,  breathlessly,  "  I  must  sketch  you 
some  day.     You  look  beautiful  so,  and  so  does  the  room." 

"  Mr.  Ray  is  beautiful ! "  fondly  said  Miss  Ray ;  "  and  the 
room  is  a  pretty  room,"  she  added,  simply. 

Mr.  Ray  smiled,  and  holding  out  his  hand,  he  drew  Beatrice 
toward  him. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing,  my  dear?"  he  asked  tenderly. 

Beatrice  did  not  answer  ;  her  countenance  grew  clouded ;  she 


116  BEATEIOE. 

saw  Miss  Jameson  coming  in  at  the  garden-gate,  and  she  could 
scarcely  repress  her  vexation.  But  she  had  made  it  an  early- 
rule  to  complain  of  her  lot  to  none,  and  if  Mr.  Ray  was  her 
friend,  he  was  not  so  in  the  confidential  meaning  of  the  word. 
He  knew  nothing,  and  nothing  did  Beatrice  tell  him.  We  do 
not  mean  to  say,  however,  that  he  did  not  know  that  Miss  Jame- 
son was  distasteful  to  her  pupil,  and  that  he  was  himself  rather 
obnoxious  to  that  lady  ;  but  into  the  causes  of  Beatrice's  dislike 
he  had  never  searched,  and  Miss  Jameson's  he  forgave.  It  was 
professional  and  very  natural  jealousy,  and  if  she  now  followed 
so  closely  on  Beatrice's  steps,  it  was  still  that  natural  and  par- 
donable infirmity  which  brought  her.  His  welcome  was,  there- 
fore, kind  and  courteous,  and  Miss  Jameson,  casting  a  furtive 
and  frightened  look  at  Beatrice,  who  stood  austere  and  grave, 
said,  hurriedly : 

"  And  how  are  you,  Mr.  Ray  ?  I  was  so  sorry  to  hear  that 
you  were  unwell.  Mr.  Gervoise  told  me  of  it  this  morning.  It 
gave  me  quite  a  turn.  I  am  so  nervous  since  I  lost  my  dear 
sister." 

And  genuine  tears  stood  in  Miss  Jameson's  dim  eyes,  for  the 
delicate  sister  whom  she  had  supported  so  long,  at  the  cost  even 
of  honour  and  truth,  had  been  dead  six  months. 

"And  how  is  dear  Mr.  Gervoise?"  tenderly  asked  Miss 
Ray.    "  I  was  saying  to  Miss  Gordon  that  he  looked  but  poorly." 

"He  is  poorly,"  said  Miss  Jameson.  *  His  mind  is  too 
much  for  him,  and  his  heart  too,  Miss  Ray." 

"  It  is,"  cried  Miss  Ray ;  "  he  shed  tears  when  I  told  him 
yesterday  about  these  poor  Wilkins." 

"  Ay,  and  he  shed  nothing  else ! "  thought  Beatrice,  indig- 
nant, though  silent. 

"Mr.  Gervoise  is  a  most  humane  man,"  mildly  said  Mr. 
Ray,  "  and  a  man  of  fine  intellect,"  he  added,  gravely. 

These  were  the  things  which  Beatrice  could  scarcely  bear. 
But  Mr.  Gervoise  had  fascinated  Miss  Ray  by  seeming  to  enter 
heart  and  soul  into  all  her  charitable  plans  ;  and  he  had  won  Mr. 
Ray  over  by  listening  with  reverent  attention  to  one  of  Mr. 
Ray's  hobbies,  the  beneficial  effect  of  literature  in  education  as 
compared  to  science.  Thanks  to  these  facile  means,  Mr.  Ger- 
voise kept  them  both  in  his  hand,  and  knew  as  exactly  what 
Beatrice  felt,  thought,  and  said,  as  either  Mr.  Ray  and  his  sister. 
They  were  quite  as  useful  in  their  way  as  Mrs.  Scot  and  Miss 
Jameson. 

"  What  I  like  in  Mr.  Gervoise,"  resumed  Miss  Ray,  "  is  the 
beautiful  simplicity  of  his  nature." 


BEATEICE.  lit 

"  Beautiful,  indeed,"  said  Miss  Jameson,  and  she  turned  up 
her  eyes  at  Mr.  Gervoise's  artlessness. 

Beatrice  could  bear  no  more. 

"  Mr.  Ray,"  she  said,  "  can  I  go  into  the  library  and  get 
your  Dante,  I  find  there  is  a  page  missing  in  mine  ?  " 

''  I  shall  get  it  for  you,"  said  Mr.  Ray,  rising. 

He  went  into  the  next  room  ;  Beatrice  followed  him  in,  and 
shut  the  door,  laughing.  That  was  what  she  wanted,  to  be  alone 
with  Mr.  Ray.  He  took  down  Dante,  and  Beatrice  had  a  dozen 
questions  to  put,  which  Mr.  Ray  was  willing  to  answer.  They 
sat  down  with  the  open  volume,  a  fine  quarto,  and  Mr.  Ray's 
grey  beard  and  Beatrice's  dark  curls  soon  bent  over  the  page. 
Miss  Jameson  and  Miss  Ray  were  walking  in  the  garden,  talking 
cheerfully  together,  and  within  sight  and  hearing,  but  Beatrice 
did  not  care.  The  whole  world  might  look  and  listen,  so  she 
had  her  dear  master  to  herself,  and  was  not  compelled  to  stand 
and  hear  Mr.  Gervoise's  hated  praises.  And  thus  an  hour  pass- 
ed, until  at  length  Miss  Jameson  got  tired  and  ashamed,  and  took 
her  leave.  Beatrice  saw  her  go,  and  looked  after  her  with  a 
curling  lip  and  a  mocking  eye. 

"  Beatrice,"  said  Mr^.  Ray's  mild  and  reproving  voice. 

He  was  looking  at  her  with  gentle  admonition.  Beatrice's 
lids  fell.  We  are  afraid  that  sincere  repentance  was  far  from 
her  heart,  but  she  loved  him  too  much  to  indulge  in  open  rebel- 
lion, and  she  sighed  to  think  how  he,  too,  was  deceived. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

Whilst  Beatrice  is  reading  Dante  with  Mr.  Ray,  Mr.  Ger- 
voise  is  enjoying  Beatrice's  pictures.  The  cool  north  light  falls 
steady  and  clear  on  the  sixty  paintings  in  the  gallery  at  Carnoosie. 
The  mellow  Cuyp,  the  golden  Claude,  the  deep  and  dark  Rem- 
brandt, the  Flemish  ladies,  clothed  in  satin,  and  playing  on  their 
lutes  to  cavaliers  in  velvet  and  lace,  their  grey  hats  with  red 
feathers  lying  on  a  table,  the  Dutch  housewives  cleaning  vege- 
tables in  their  old  Dutch  windows,  the  soldiers  playing  at  cards 
and  cheating  in  the  tavern  ;  all  are  there,  soft,  distinct,  and  clear. 
Enthroned  in  the  centre  is  Murillo's  virgin,  a  sweet  and  gracious 
image.  No  longer  human  is  that  pure  flesh.  It  has  passed 
through  the  grave  and  entered  the  world  of  immortal  life. 
Eternity  is  beaming  from  those  radiant  eyes,  and  never  more 
shall  that  happy  smile  know  sorrow.  The  battle  is  over  and 
won,  the  divine  mother  has  found  her  divine  son,  the  thresholds 
of  Heaven  are  passed,  and  welcomed  by  saints  and  angels,  she 
sits  above,  as  Gabriel  found  her,  praying  in  the  little  house  in 
Nazareth,  "  full  of  grace." 

"  A  dangerous  neighbour  that  MurUlo,"  thinks  Mr.  Gervoise, 
who  has  been  looking,  and  he  walks  on. 

On  him,  too,  falls  the  clear  north  light — an  unpleasant  pic- 
ture. Ay,  MuriUo,  the  Murillo  who  paints  Madonnas,  is  a 
dangerous  neighbour  here.  More  dangerous  than  to  the  sensual 
Rubens,  or  to  the  earthly  Van  Ostade.  Time  and  life  have 
worked  hard  at  the  living  picture  before  us,  and  disease  has 
helped  them ;  the  comely  face  and  the  handsome  features  which 
won  Mr.  Gervoise  his  three  wives  wiU  never  get  him  a  fourth, 
should  Mrs.  Gervoise  die. 

Behold  him  now,  red,  bloated,  and  pimply.  He  does  well  to 
turn  away  from  that  pale  and  Heavenly  lady  throned  in  grace  ; 
it  is  a  keen  and  cruel  contrast,  even  though  there  is  no  eye  to  see 
it,  for  Mr.  Gervoise  and  the  pictures  are  alone. 

They  are  still  his  darlings  ;  still  his  eye  wanders  with  delight 


BEATRICE.  119 

on  those  relics  of  the  genius  and  the  hopes  and  feelings  and 
dreams  of  vanished  ages,  which  man  agrees  to  prize  so  highly. 
A  strange  taste  and  a  strange  pleasure,  if  we  think  of  it  well. 
We  are  surrounded  by  reality,  and  we  heed  it  not ;  images  of  the 
most  homely  scenes  can  throw  us  into  a  fever  of  ecstasy,  and  the 
scenes  themselves  leave  us  cold.  A  cabbage  painted  by  a  Dutch- 
man is  divine  ;  put  it  in  a  kitchen  garden,  with  the  morning  dew 
of  Heaven  itself  still  glistening  upon  it,  and  we  shall  set  its 
market  value  upon  it  no  more.  Is  the  memory  of  some  things 
better  than  those  things  themselves,  or  rather  is  man's  conception 
of  the  meanest  objects  creative  and  divine  in  its  effect  upon  man  ? 
Mr.  Gervoise's  thoughts  took  no  such  searching  turn ;  but  he 
knew  that  his  was  no  unmixed  joy.  These  pictures  were  not  his, 
they  were  Beatrice's,  and  Beatrice  would  soon  be  twenty-one ; 
and  envy  and  regret  mingled  now,  as  ever,  in  his  delight. 

Moreover,  Mr.  Gervoise  was  alone,  and  though  he  was  the 
most  unsociable  of  men,  he  hated  solitude  ;  it  may  be  that  it  in- 
spired him  with  a  sort  of  terror.  Since  he  had  settled  in  Car- 
noosie  he  had  studiously  shunned  the  paying  and  the  receiving 
of  all  visits  ;  but  his  own  society  was  irksome  to  him,  his  wife's, 
a  servant's,  Beatrice's  even,  was  preferable.  Mrs.  Scot's  voice, 
which  he  now  heard  outside,  suggested  the  relief  he  wanted  to 
the  burden  of  his  own  thoughts  ;  he  hastily  opened  the  door  and 
called  out  cheerfully — 

"  Mrs.  Scot,  this  way  if  you  please." 

The  causes  which  made  Mr.  Gervoise's  society  irksome  to 
himself,  rendered  it  doubly  so  to  those  around  him.  The  very 
kitchen-maids  dreaded  the  infliction.  No  condescension,  no 
amiability,  could  efface  the  terrible  fact,  Mr.  Gervoise  was  a 
bore  !  But  Mrs.  Scot  had  not  time  to  escape,  so  she  obeyed  the 
summons,  and  heard  Mr.  Gervoise  asking  her  where  he  should 
hang  up  the  new  Ribeira  he  meant  to  purchase. 

Mrs.  Scot  hated  pictures.  They  had  been  the  late  Mr.  Car- 
noosie's  hobby,  and  she  hated  them  with  a  vindictive  hatred. 
Ribeira's  Spanish  name  irritated  her.  Were  not  all  the  pictures 
foreigners,  every  one  of  them  ?  she  might  have  answered  sharply  ; 
but  it  was  a  listener,  not  a  speaker,  Mr.  Gervoise  wanted,  and 
he  complacently  resumed — 

"  This  is  a  splendid  Ribeira,  Mrs.  Scot,  the  finest  in  Eng- 
land. A  Saint  Sebastian ;  it  belonged  to  the  Iron  Duke,  who 
got  it  from  Spanish  monks  and  gave  it  to  a  lady,  who  sold  it  to 
a  picture-dealer.  It  is  all  but  mine,  and  where  shall  I  hang  it 
up,  Mrs.  Scot?" 


120  BEATRICE. 

"  Mrs.  Gervoise  is  a  better  judge  than  I  am,  sir,"  replied 
Mrs.  Scot,  glancing  toward  the  window,  through  which  Mr. 
Gervoise  could  see  his  wife  walking  on  the  terrace. 

Mrs.  Gervoise  was  a  new  listener,  and  her  husband  said 
quickly — 

"  Quite  right,  Mrs.  Scot.  Mrs.  Gervoise  has  a  very  correct 
eye.     Will  you  ask  her  to  come  up  ?  " 

Mrs.  Scot  nodded  in  her  stern  way,  and  went  down  to  the 
terrace  where  Mrs.  Gervoise  was  slowly  walking  in  the  sun. 
Pale  and  wan  was  the  poor  lady  now ;  habitual  ill-health  had 
seized  her  for  its  own  since  her  second  marriage.  To  lie  on  a 
couch,  with  Beatrice  sitting  by  her  side,  or  to  take  a  slow  walk 
around  the  house  on  the  sunny  terrace,  was  Mrs.  Gervoise's  fate 
now.  She  turned  round  with  a  scared  look  on  hearing  Mrs. 
Scot's  step,  and  listened  to  her  message  with  evident  trepidation, 
but  she  hastened  to  say : 

"  Oh,  certainly ! — I  am  going !  Mr.  Gervoise  must  not 
wait.     Will  you  help  me  up-stairs,  Mrs.  Scot,  if  you  please  ?  " 

Her  tone  in  addressing  the  housekeeper  was  humble  and 
timid ;  and  Mrs.  Scot,  with  very  little  relaxation  of  her  stern 
mien,  condescended  to  give  the  lady  her  arm,  and  took  her  up 
to  the  gallery  without  a  word. 

"Are  you  not  coming  in,  too,  Mrs.  Scot?"  entreatingly 
asked  Mrs.  Gervoise,  in  the  tone  of  one  who  dreaded  a  private 
interview  with  Mr.  Gervoise. 

"  No,  ma'am,"  was  the  short  reply,  "  I  must  see  to  the 
china." 

Mrs.  Gervoise  sighed,  and  entered  the  gallery.  She  did  not 
shut  the  door  behind  her ;  and  Mrs.  Scot,  whilst  seeing  to  the 
china,  as  she  called  it,  could  hear  the  conversation  within.  The 
Carnoosie  china  was  to  Mrs.  Scot  what  the  Carnoosie  pictures 
were  to  her  master.  Amongst  the  elder  Carnosies  there  had 
been  one  who  had  honoured  Asia  and  the  Indian  Ocean  with  fre- 
quent visits.  From  these  remote  expeditions  he  had  brought  back 
strange  treasures — carved  Heathen  idols  of  yellow  ivory,  with 
crossed  legs  and  triple  faces,  and  many  hands.  These  abode  in 
a  large  japanned  cabinet,  on  the  outward  shelves  and  cornices  of 
which  extended  a  small  but  costly  collection  of  ancient  china. 
This  was  Mrs.  Scot's  peculiar  delight.  She  doted  not  merely  on 
the  delicately-transparent  cups  and  saucers,  but  especially  on  two 
horrible  and  gigantic  dragons,  green  and  gold,  which,  being  too 
large  to  stand  on  the  shelves  of  the  cabinet,  were  placed  on  the 
floor  in  front  of  it,  like  the  grim  keepers  of  some  enchanted  cas- 


BEATRICE.  121 

tie.  A  sort  of  maternal  affection  had  Mrs.  Scot  conceived  for 
this  pair  of  monsters.  Their  broad,  horny  heads,  their  mon- 
ster bodies,  and  scaly  tales,  were  more  to  her  than  the  Murillo 
to  Mr.  Gervoise,  who  hated  the  Carnoosie  china  as  she  hated  the 
Carnoosie  pictures,  and  had  once  told  her  he  would  give  all  that 
rubbish  for  a  Ribeira.  Mr.  Scot  had  treasured  up  the  confession 
with  stern  resentment,  and  bestowed  a  double  amount  of  her  dis- 
like on  the  Ribeira  tribe  from  that  day  forth.  With  tender  care 
she  now  dusted  her  grim  darlings,  neither  hearing  nor  minding 
the  preliminary  discourse  which  passed  between  Mr.  Gervoise 
and  his  wife.  A  word  that  caught  her  ear  made  her  pause  and 
listen.     Mr.  Gervoise  was  saying  : 

"  This  Ribeira  was  my  father's,  as  I  told  you.  He  purchased 
it  in  Holland,  then  parted  with  it  to  the  man  who  has  it  now,  but 
on  the  express  condition  that  I  should  have  the  power  of  re- 
purchasing it.  I  really  think  I  ought  to  buy  it  back.  Beatrice 
would  like  it,  I  am  sure." 

"  What  is  the  subject?  "  asked  Mrs.  Gervoise's  timid  voice. 

''Mary  Magdalen  doing  penance  in  the  desert.  A  lovely 
head ! — ^it  would  please  Beatrice.  Try,  my  love,  and  ascertain 
if  she  would  like  it." 

"  Certainly,"  replied  Mrs.  Gervoise's  faint  voice  again  ;  "  I 
should  like  to  sit  down,  Mr.  Gervoise." 

"  Better  walk,  my  dear — ^better  walk.  You  want  strength  , 
take  my  arm.  Let  us  walk  up  and  down,  and  look  at  the  pic- 
tures, my  love." 

Mrs.  Scot  stared  at  her  china  monsters,  and  nodding  grimly, 
she  thought  : 

"  He  would  tell  lies  to  himself  in  a  wood.  He  thinks  lies — 
he  dreams  lies  !  I  never  yet  heard  him  tell  the  same  story  twice 
the  same  way.  Give  him  a  pin's  head  worth  of  truth,  and  he 
will  spread  it  into  an  ell.  He  lives  upon  lies — they  are  meat, 
and  drink,  and  sleep  to  him  ! " 

We  have  all  our  own  peculiar  fault,  which  we  yield  to  and 
cherish  with  paternal  tenderness,  and  peculiar  vice  which  we  hate 
with  cordial  abhorrence.  Mrs.  Scot  was  vindictive ;  she  had 
never  forgiven  Beatrice  for  making  faces  at  her — on  her  death- 
bed she  would  not  forgive  her.  She  hated  inanimate  objects  with 
the  same  vigour,  and  what  she  did  not  hate  Mrs.  Scot  as  a  rule 
despised.  Love,  its  gentleness,  its  warmth,  and  innocent  fer- 
vour, were  sealed  mysteries  to  this  woman's  heart.  Yet,  with- 
out a  sort  of  integrity  of  her  own,  cruel  and  hard  she  Avas  not. 
She  could  tell  an  untruth  coolly  and  wickedly — for  her  revengo 
6 


122  BEATEICE. 

did  not  scorn  this  mode  of  action  ;  but  she  hated  a  lie  as  a  sort 
of  meanness.  Especially  hateful  to  her  was  the  small  purpose- 
less untruth. 

"  If  he  even  meant  something  by  it,"  she  soliloquised,  with 
indignant  virtue  ;  "  but,  no — it  is  all  for  nothing,  and  no  good. 
A  foreigner,  every  bit  of  him — a  dirty,  lazy,  lying  foreigner,  come 
to  live  upon  us  English  !     That's  what  he  is — Mr.  Gervoise." 

With  which  flattering  comment  Mrs.  Scot  gave  the  Chinese 
monsters  a  last  fond  look  and  shut  up  the  cabinet. 

At  the  foot  of  the  staircase  Mrs.  Scot  met  Antony  Gervoise, 
now  a  very  pretty  young  man,  with  a  slight  but  by  no  means  an 
eiFeminate  figure.  He  nodded  to  her,  and  with  his  feline  smile 
he  said — 

"  How's  your  cat,  Mrs.  Scot?" 

Then  without  waiting  for  her  reply,  he  walked  away  laugh- 
ing. 

Mrs.  Scot  looked  after  him  with  her  darkest  look.  If  she 
hated  Beatrice,  she  hated  Antony  ten  times  more,  for  only  two 
months  ago  had  this  blue  eyed  young  man  cruelly  waylaid  and 
killed  her  large  black  cat,  the  only  creature  which  Mrs.  Scot 
cared  for.  But  she  smiled  as  she  watched  him  taking  the  path 
that  led  to  the  orchard.  She  knew  what  he  was  seeking  there, 
and  Mrs.  Scot  nodded  triumphantly  as  she  thought  of  the  recep- 
tion he  was  going  to  get.  Antony  himself  had  painful  doubts  on 
the  subject.  "  She'll  scratch  my  eyes  out,"  he  thought,  but  then 
he  remembered  that  to  the  attractions  of  his  blue  eyes  and  rosy 
cheeks  a  brown  moustache  was  now  added,  and  on  this  potent 
spell  he  relied.  "  She  can't  resist  that,"  he  thought,  "  she  can't, 
you  know."  Nevertheless  he  paused  when  he  saw  her  at  a  dis- 
tance. Blunt  though  his  perceptions  were,  he  knew  that  Beatrice 
and  he  stood  at  the  two  extremities  of  the  moral  world.  But 
why  was  it  so?  "It  is  all  her  perversity,"  he  thought,  "  only 
she's  so  pretty."  So  she  was,  and  he  stood  and  looked  at  her 
admiringly. 

Antony  had  been  plucked  at  the  university ;  but  on  returning 
to  Carnoosie,  shorn  of  some  laurels,  he  had  lost  no  time  in  gather- 
ing others  in  a  pleasanter  field. 

There  was  some  fine  shooting  about  Carnoosie — shooting 
which  was  thrown  away  upon  Beatrice.  Mr.  Gervoise  commit- 
ted his  son  to  the  care  of  the  gamekeeper,  and  paternally  took 
no  more  trouble  about  him.  He  had  given  him  the  opportunities 
of  a  first-rate  education,  and  of  a  high  connexion — ^he  had  given 


BEATKICE.  123 

him  the  chance  of  a  rich  wife — ^he  had  given  him  the  habit  of 
manly  sports  ;  a  kind  father  could  do  no  more. 

His  second  son  took  very  kindly  to  this  teaching  ;  that  por- 
tion especially  which  regarded  Beatrice  Gordon  and  the  shooting 
did  he  affect ;  and  when  he  got  tired  of  the  one  he  promptly 
turned  to  the  other.     It  happened  to  be  Beatrice's  turn  now. 

"  She  is  thinking  of  something  pleasant,"  he  thought,  watch- 
ing her  as  she  sat  at  the  foot  of  a  tree,  "  some  new  way  of  tor- 
menting me,  of  course.  Well,  she  does  look  tantalizingly 
pretty,  that  is  all."  And  unable  to  resist  the  fascination  which 
ever  made  him  seek  this  charming  tormentor,  Antony  suddenly 
came  forward  and  familiarly  sat  down  by  Beatrice's  side.  Her 
nerves  were  well  strung,  she  neither  started  nor  showed  any  sur- 
prise, but  she  slowly  turned  toward  the  young  man,  and  her 
dark  eyes  shone  on  him  with  austere  displeasure. 

"  I  told  you  once  for  all  that  I  wished  to  be  alone  in  the 
orchard,"  said  the  mistress  of  Carnoosie. 

"  Shall  I  go?"  asked  Antony. 

Submission  always  softened  Beatrice,  besides  her  original  dis- 
like of  Antony  had  given  way  to  a  sort  of  contemptuous  and 
compassionate  liking.  She,  too,  studied  him  with  sad  wonder, 
she  read  in  him  instincts  of  evil  so  deep  and  so  dangerous  that  it 
pleased  her  to  consider  him  as  a  being  of  another  race  than  that 
of  Adam — a  cruel,  perfidious,  and  graceful  specimen  of  the  genus 
felis,  who  could  no  more  help  his  perversity  than  the  domestic 
cat,  or  the  tiger  of  the  jungle  can  help  theirs. 

"  And  yet  I  could  tame  him,"  thought  Beatrice  sometimes. 
And  so  she  could  ;  she  could  tame,  but  not  conquer  ;  subdue  the 
outward  wickedness,  but  never  reach  the  inner  heart. 

"  You  need  not  go,"  she  now  said  graciously  enough.  "  What 
have  you  been  doing  whilst  you  were  away — shooting  ?  " 

Antony  nodded. 

"  I  suppose  you  cannot  make  up  your  mind  to  read  the  book 
I  lent  you?" 

"  I  read  it  through,"  promptly  answered  Antony. 

Beatrice  held  up  her  finger. 

"  Ye<l  are  telling  me  an  untruth,"  she  said. 

"  Beatrice,  on  my  word  of  honour " 

"  Do  not,"  she  interrupted,  "  you  pain  me." 

And  Antony  saw  with  some  surprise  that  her  ey^s  were 
bright  and  dewy  with  tears. 

"  You  pain  me,"  she  said  again.  "  You  are  so  unlike  what 
Gilbert's  brother  should  be.    Oh  !  what  a  pity,  my  poor  Antony, 


124  BEATRICE. 

that  you  are  what  you  are,  what  a  mortal  pity !  You  are  young, 
you  are  handsome,  you  are  well  off,  I  believe,  you  could  move 
in  good  society,  act  a  noble  part  in  the  world,  and  all  these  bless- 
ings, so  precious,  so  invaluable,  are  wasted !  You  have  neither 
honour,  nor  truth,  nor  wisdom.  Your  ignorance  makes  you  unfit 
to  be  the  companion  of  gentlemen,  your  tastes  are  lower  than 
your  groom's,  for  he  rises  to  his  master,  and  you  sink  to  your 
servant.     Antony,  it  is  a  mortal  pity,  and  my  heart  aches  for 

you." 

There  were  some  unflattering  things  in  this  speech,  and 
Antony  winced  to  hear  them,  but  he  was  accustomed  to  bear  a 
good  deal  of  this  sort  of  frankness  from  Beatrice ;  besides,  she 
had  said,  "  You  are  handsome  ! "  and  his  mind  was  of  the  order 
to  revel  in  such  words  when  uttered  by  Beatrice's  lips.  His 
blue  eyes  overflowed  with  delight,  his  lips  trembled  with  excite- 
ment, and  bending  toward  her  with  caressing  grace,  he  said 
softly : 

"  Beatrice,  I  know  I  am  all  wrong,  but,  Beatrice,  my  father 
is  to  blaiqae  !  He  is  the  most  selfish  of  men.  Beatrice,  he  would 
let  me  go  to  ruin  rather  than  take  the  least  trouble  about  me. 
So  I  let  him  look  at  his  pictures,  and  enjoy  his  French  cook — 
what  does  he  care  ?  " 

"  Hush  !  "  said  Beatrice,  "  you  should  not  speak  so." 

"  Beatrice,  it  is  the  truth,  and  you  cannot  deny  it.  Beatrice, 
believe  me,  I  could  become  very  (Afferent  from  what  I  am  if  you 
would  take  me  in  hand." 

Beatrice's  bright  dark  eyes  laughed,  but  she  did  not  answer. 
Antony  continued : 

"  Beatrice,  I  would  do  any  thing  to  please  you — ^try  me  ! " 

"  How  so  ?  "  asked  Beatrice,  still  laughing. 

Antony  stooped,  took  her  hand,  and  kissed  it  with  some  pas- 
sion. 

"  Beatrice,"  he  said,  "  I  love  you  dearly :  beyond  any  thing 
and  any  one  else  in  this  world ! " 

There  was  nothing  in  the  confession  to  surprise  Beatrice. 
She  had  known  for  a  long  time  what  Mr.  Gervoise  openly 
wished  for,  and  what  his  son  secretly  desired  ;  she  had  not  taken 
the  trouble  to  check  either  father  or  son.  She  felt  her  own  in 
deed  and  thought,  and  feared  nothing  and  no  one.  But  though 
Antony's  confession  could  not  astonish  Beatrice,  it  startled  her 
slightly,  for  she  was  not  prepared  for  it  just  then.  She  coloured 
a  little,  but  neither  attempted  to  rise  nor  to  withdraw  her  hand 


BEATEICE.  125 

from  Antony's.      That  pity  which  was  her  strong  and  ruling 
feeling  toward  him,  rose  again  with  her. 

"  Poor  Antony  !  "  she  said  softly  ;  "  don't  you  know  that 
can  never  be — never  ?  " 

"  Why  not,  Beatrice  ?  " 

"  Because  it  is  against  nature  that  there  should  be  any  thing 
save  abhorrence  between  us." 

"  Beatrice ! " 

"  Yes,  I  know  ;  and  please  not  to  kiss  my  hand  any  more.  I 
know,  Antony,  you  like  me.  So  does  the  cat  like  the  bird  it  is 
ready  to  spring  on  and  devour.  That  is  your  way,  Antony !  I 
have  seen  you  whip  your  dog — that  is  your  way." 

>  Tears  rose  to  his  eyes,  tears  of  grief  and  shame.    He  dropped 
her  hand,  and  almost  flung  it  from  him. 

"  Oh  !  Beatrice,"  he  said,  "  you  are  too  cruel !  " 

"Ami?" 

"  Yes.  Have  I  not  just  told  you  that  you  could  mould  me 
to  your  own  will,  Beatrice  ? — indeed  you  could  ! "  and  turning 
round,  he  looked  at  her  very  tenderly,  and,  for  once,  sincerely. 

Again  Beatrice  seemed  much  affected.  Years  of  solitude 
and  thought,  and  some  suffering,  had  given  her  a  depth  and 
penetration  beyond  her  age.  She  was  young  in  her  enjoyment 
of  life,  and  old  in  her  sense  of  its  mysteries  and  sadness. 
Thought  and  reading  and  observation,  keen,  though  limited,  had 
supplied,  with  her,  the  place  of  experience.  She  knew  Antony 
Gervoise  thoroughly,  better  than  he  knew  himself,  and  she  knew 
that,  unless  through  a  miracle,  there  was  little  or  no  hope  for 
him.  That  miracle  she  did  not  feel  called  upon  to  perform,  but 
it  saddened  her  inexpressibly  to  think  that  it  could  perhaps  have 
been  done,  and  that  it  never  would  be,  and  that  Antony  Gervoise 
would  and  must  go  down  to  perdition,  and  never  find  a  helping 
hand  on  his  way. 

The  young  man  was  watching  her  closely.  He  saw  her 
emotion,  and  though  he  did  not  think  it  all  favourable  to  his 
suit,  he  felt  a  vague  hope. 

"  Try  me,  Beatrice,"  he  said,  softly,  "  try  me." 

"  Never  in  that  way,"  she  replied,  with  her  firm,  bright 
smile,  "  never,  Mr.  Antony  Gervoise.  I  have  already  said  it  to 
you — we  are  not  of  the  same  kind,  and  we  cannot  mate.  If  I 
do  marry,  the  man  I  choose  must  be  beyond  me,  in  my  concep- 
tion, at  least,  in  all  that  is  good,  noble,  and  true.  This  you 
cannot  be.  I  have  infinite  pity  for  you,  Antony,  pity  deeper 
than  I  can  say,  but  that  is  all." 


126  BEATRICE. 

"  You  like  me,  Beatrice  !" 
.   "  No.     And  if  I  do,  do  not  rely  upon  it.     That  liking  is 
nothing,  and  will  lead  to  nothing." 

Antony  bit  his  lip,  and  frowned  slightly. 

"  I  tell  you  that  you  like  me,"  he  persisted. 

But  Beatrice  would  not  be  angered. 
'  "  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  do.  You  are  young,  and  you  might  be 
good.  You  are  Gilbert's  brother,  too,  and,  sad  to  say,  very  like 
him.  You  are  better-looking  than  he  is,  but  you  have  something 
of  him — ^there  are  moments  when  your  voice  and  your  look  re- 
call his — and  therefore  I  like  you,  Antony,  for  he  was  my  great 
friend,  my  good  and  true  friend  years  ago  ! " 

"  Ah  !  but  you  never  saw  him  since,"  said  Antony,  with  evi- 
dent satisfaction. 

"  Never  ;  and  what  is  more,  I  do  not  think  I  shall  ever  see 
him  again.  Do  not  be  too  glad,  Antony.  I  like  to  think  of  your 
brother,  but,  as  you  perceive,  I  can  live  without  him." 

She  smiled  defiantly  in  his  face,  and,  rising  from  beneath  the 
apple  tree,  walked  away.  Antony  sat  looking  after  her,  but  he 
did  not  venture  to  follow  her.  He  feared  as  much  as  he  loved 
her,  and,  but  for  that  fear,  might  never  have  cared  for  her.  He 
liked  her  because  she  had  bright  dark  eyes  and  a  pretty  face,  and 
a  graceful  figure,  and  because  she  was  the  mistress  of  Carnoosie, 
for  which  he  felt  a  most  tender  affection  ;  but  besides  that  liking 
there  had  grown  up  another,  very  different  from  it ;  a  deep  and 
servile  love  for  the  hand  that  alternately  caressed  and  chastised 
him.  He  did  not  merely  long  to  possess  Beatrice,  he  longed  to 
be  Beatrice's,  to  feel  one  with  that  noble  and  bright  creature,  and 
lose  in  her  the  sense  of  his  own  meanness — for,  being  young,  he 
had  yet  this  much  good  in  him,  that  he  knew  his  own  unworthi- 
ness.  This  negative  virtue,  however,  did  not  go  so  far  as  to 
check  Mr.  Antony  Gervoise  in  his  suit ;  Beatrice  Gordon  did  not 
w^ant  him,  but  he  wanted  her,  and  have  her  he  would.  He  saw 
her  again  as  he  entered  the  house.  She  stood  with  her  mother 
on  the  sunlit  terrace,  looking  at  the  stately  trees  which  grew 
around  Carnoosie,  and  nodded  their  green  heads  to  the  soft  west- 
ern wind.  She  leaned  with  folded  arms  on  the  stone  balustrade  ; 
the  sun  shone  on  her  bare  head  and  her  graceful  neck.  Her 
slight  and  supple  figure  had  a  careless  grace,  and  the  very  sole 
of  her  little  upturned  shoe,  as  she  tapped  the  gravel  with  het  foot, 
had  fascination  in  it  for  Antony. 

The  act  of  speaking  to  her  had  given  his  passion  new  force. 
At  once  he  went  up  to  the  gallery,  and  addressing  his  father,  who 


BEATEICE.  127 

was  looking  at  a  Cuyp  with  half-shut  eyes,  he  said  doggedly  and 
insolently : 

"  If  I  do  not  marry  Beatrice  within  three  months,  I  shall 
leave  Carnoosie  for  good." 

"  My  goodness  t"  cried  Mr.  Gervoise,  much  startled,  "  what 
has  happened  ?     I  did  not  even  know  you  were  come  back." 

"  This  has  happened  that  she  will  not  have  me,  and  that  she 
wants  Gilbert,  whom  she  is  always  throwing  up  in  my  face." 

"  Nonsense,  my  dear  boy  ;  they  have  not  met  since  they  were 
children.     There  is  nothing  in  it." 

Antony  replied  that  there  was  plenty  in  it,  and  again  vowed 
that,  if  he  did  not  get  Beatrice,  he  would  leave  Carnoosie  for 
good.  Now  this  was  a  most  unpleasant  threat.  Antony  was  of 
age,  but  his  pecuniary  matters  were  in  Mr.  Gervoise's  hands. 
The  thought  of  settling  was  disagreeable  in  the  extreme  to  that 
gentleman.  He  had  indeed  kindly  lent  his  son  some  large  sums, 
on  good  security,  of  course,  but  suppose  Antony  should  make  an 
outcry  on  that  matter,  and  the  world  should  side  with  Antony. 
It  would  not  do  at  all. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  he  said  affectionately,  "  I  will  do  every  thing, 
any  thing  for  you,  but  on  one  condition  :  you  must  follow  up  the 
plan  you  have  just  suggested,  you  must  leave  Carnoosie  for  a 
time.  I  must  act  in  your  absence.  Let  our  dear  Beatrice  hate 
me,  if  needs  she  will,  but  she  must  not  hate  you.  Go  and  have 
some  nice  shooting — say  in  Scotland ;  I  will  let  you  have  the 
money,  and  when  you  return,  you  will  find  Miss  Gordon  more 
amiable  and  compliant  than  she  was  this  morning." 

The  words  "  shooting  in  Scotland"  acted  like  a  spell.  Antony 
calmed  down  at  once,  and  professed  himself  ready  to  go  that 
minute. 

"  Go  to-day — this  afternoon,"  said  his  father  ;  "it  will  l5ok 
well.     Beatrice  will  like  it.     Besides,  I  can  act  at  once." 

"You  are  not  going  to  hurt  her,  are  you?"  asked  Antony 
with  some  uneasiness. 

"  Hurt  her  ! "  exclaimed  Mr.  Gervoise,  looking  shocked,  and 
making  his  pimpled  face  and  small  ferret  eyes  look  as  benevolent 
as  he  could ;  "  why,  Antony,  don't  you  know  me?" 

"  Ay,  that  I  do,"  thought  Antony  ;  but,  taking  Mr.  Gervoise's 
kindness  and  forbearance  to  Beatrice  for  granted,  he  suggested 
that  they  should  settle  forthwith  the  pecuniary  preliminaries  of 
his  trip  to  Scotland.  To  this  proposal  Mr.  Gervoise  acceded, 
and  hard  and  keen  was  the  bargain  which  this  thoughtful  father 
drove  with  the  son  whom  he  loved,  however,  as  the  bad  can  love, 


128  BEATRICE. 

at  an  infinite  distance  from  himself,  his  interest  and  convenience. 
At  length  the  matter  was  settled  ;  JNIr.  Gervoise,  having  received 
proper  security,  in  case  his  son  should  perish  in  a  railway  colli- 
sion, or  die  in  some  other  fashion,  for  he  was  not  his  heir,  and 
should  guard  against  so  unpleasant  a  contingency,  dismissed  him 
with  liberal  assurances  of  paternal  affection. 

That  same  day  Antony  Gervoise  left,  and  that  same  day,  too, 
Mr.  Gervoise  began  the  attack  which  was  to  end  in  Beatrice's 
defeat.  To  Beatrice  herself  he  did  not  speak ;  he  was  satisfied 
with  opening  his  mind  to  Mrs.  Gervoise.  For  many  years  that 
poor  lady  had  not  walked  beyond  the  precincts  of  the  terrace. 
There  she  sat  in  fine  weather,  and  there  Beatrice  sat  with  her  as 
much  as  she  could.  But  youth  needs  motion ;  and  though  she 
was  rarely  long  away,  Beatrice  generally  left  her  mother  in  the 
morning  to  go  to  the  orchard,  and  in  the  afternoon  to  walk  down 
an  avenue  of  trees,  large,  stately,  and  solemn,  which  was  one  of 
the  beauties  of  Carnoosie.  Down  this  avenue  Beatrice  is  walk- 
ing now.  She  has  just  parted  from  Antony,  who  has  bidden  her 
a  sad  and  subdued  farewell,  and  she  pities  and  half  likes  him  in 
her  heart. 

"  I  wish  he  would  be  good,"  she  thought,  "  I  wish  he  would 
be  good  and  true.  His  father  is  a  serpent — a  remorseless  snake  ; 
he  is  base  as  well  as  cruel — a  being  made  to  sting  and  crawl. 
But  there  is  something  better  in  that  poor  Antony — not  much, 
but  still  something.  Besides,  he  likes  me  in  his  way,  and,  hard 
as  I  am  with  him,  he  ever  comes  back  to  me.  I  wish  he  either 
liked  me  less,  or  that  I  could  like  him  more  ! " 

As  she  thus  soliloquised,  Beatrice  stopped  short ;  and,  looking 
at  her  trees,  forgot  Antony.  They  were  so  beautiful,  so  majestic, 
and  they  were  her  own,  and  possession  was  sweet  to  the  mistress 
of  Carnoosie.  Her  eyes  sparkled  with  delight ;  these  were  her 
only  unmixed  joys.  In  all  else  she  found  trouble  and  care  ;  but 
when  she  stood  alone — ^the  sky  above  her  head,  the  green  grass 
beneath  her  feet,  her  solemn,  wide-spreading  beeches  and  gnarled 
oaks  around  her,  she  breathed  freely  and  felt  happy.  What  the 
prairie  is  to  the  Red  Indian,  and  the  mountain  to  the  mountain- 
eer, trees  were  to  Beatrice  Gordon.  Here  she  tasted  that  bless- 
ing which  is  the  salt  of  all  others,  and  without  which  they  are 
poor  and  tame — liberty.  The  sense  of  no  unkind  eye  resting  on 
her,  of  no  spy's  perfidious  ear  lying  in  wait  for  every  breath 
which  fell  from  her  lips,  was  sweetness  to  the  captive  girl.  She 
was  free  according  to  the  world's  estimate ;  she  was  rich,  too, 
and  she  owned  a  fkir  home — but  Beatrice  knew  that  she  was  a 


BEATEICE.  •  129 

prisoner.  She  had  grown  up  in  that  thraldom  ;  but  the  habit 
which  enabled  her  to  endure  it,  could  not  lessen  her  secret  hate 
of  it,  nor  yet  make  her  enjoy  less  every  moment  snatched  from 
her  gaolers.  Sweet,  therefore,  was  it  for  her  to  wander  thus, 
toward  the  fall  of  day,  in  that  grey  avenue,  so  still  and  lonely. 
To  a  gayer  and  a  happier  girl  its  gloom  and  solitude  would  have 
seemed  oppressive  ;  to  Beatrice  they  yielded  relief  all  the  more 
prized  that  it  was  very  brief. 

"  I  must  go  back  to  my  poor  darling,"  she  thought,  after  a 
while  ;  and,  turning  her  back  on  her  friends,  as  she  often  called 
them  in  those  soliloquies  which  were  a  portion  of  her  solitary 
life,  she  walked  at  a  brisk  pace  toward  the  house.  She  found 
Mrs.  Gervoise  lying  on  a  couch  in  her  room,  and  that  room  was 
now  near  Beatrice's.  For  the  last  year  especially,  Mr.  Gervoise 
had  shown  himself  bent  on  conciliating  Beatrice,  and  so  far  from 
seeking  to  part  her  from  her  mother,  he  had  done  much  to  throw 
them  together.  Beatrice,  w^ho  could  not  perhaps  be  just  to  him, 
had  concluded  that  he  thus  hoped  to  strengthen  his  hold  upon  her, 
and  had  hated  him  none  the  less  that  she  availed  herself  fully  of 
the  privileges  he  so  graciously  allowed  her. 

But,  as  we  said,  she  found  Mrs.  Gervoise  in  her  room,  lying 
as  usual  on  a  couch,  and  looking  worn  and  exhausted. 

"Does  any  thing  ail  you,  darling?"  she  asked;  "have  you 
been  worried?" 

"  No,  my  dear — certainly  not.    I  was  only  wishing  for  you." 

"  Well,  here  I  am."  And  Beatrice  sat  down  at  her  mother's 
feet,  and  looked  earnestly  at  her  flushed  face. 

"  Beatrice." 

"  Yes,  darling." 

"  I  wish  we  could  travel — I  do  long  for  a  change." 
.  Beatrice  did  not  answer. 

"  I  wish  you  were  of  age." 

"  That  would  make  no  difference." 

"  But  if  you  were  married,  Beatrice." 

"  I  shall  never  marry,  darling." 

"Why  not?" 

"  It  would  never  do — ^never.    Let  us  talk  of  something  else." 

"  No,  Beatrice,  I  must  talk  of  that.  Why  do  you  not 
marry?" 

Beatrice  laughed,  and  asked : — "  Who  wants  me  ?  " 

"Oh!  Beatrice,  who  would  not  want  you  rather?  Why, 
you  know  well  enough  poor  Antony  is  longing  for  you  ! " 

"Is  he?" 

6* 


130  BEATEICE. 

"  Of  course  he  is,  poor  fellow  !  Beatrice,  I  think  that  young 
man  is  much  improved." 

Beatrice  did  not  reply.  She  leaned  her  cheek  upon  her  hand, 
and  looked  steadily  at  the  flowers  on  the  carpet,  whilst  her 
mother  continued : 

"  And  I  think,  Beatrice,  I  really  do,  that  if  you  would  have 
him,  we  should  all  be  much  happier.  Think  it  over,  my  dear. 
He  is  a  very  nice  and  good-looking  young  man,  and  you  would 
make  him  amiable  and  gentle,  and  you  would  live  together  in 
Carnoosie,  and  I  know  Mr.  Gervoise  would  let  us  travel,  and  I 
long  for  change.     Do  think  it  over,  Beatrice  ! " 

And  Beatrice,  whose  face  was  still  resting  on  her  hand,  and 
whose  eyes  were  still  downcast,  was  thinking  it  over.  It  was 
the  keenest  pain  she  had  felt  since  that  sad  day  when  Gilbert 
had  been  torn  from  her ;  it  was  a  pain  far  keener  still.  For 
then,  if  Mr.  Gervoise  robbed  her  of  her  friend,  he  could  not  taint 
the  friendship,  and  now  he  had  frightened  and  bribed  her  own 
mother  to  act  against  her.  Beatrice  could  not  bear  it ;  that  the 
being  for  whose  sake  she  bore  all  in  silence,  and  without  com- 
plaint, for  whom  she  was  ready  to  submit  to  every  trial,  should, 
at  his  threats  or  entreaties,  attempt  to  persuade  her  to  her  last- 
ing misery,  was  a  pang  too  cruel  and  too  keen  !  Therefore  did 
she  keep  her  face  leaning  on  her  hand,  and  her  eyes  downcast. 

"  My  dear,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Gervoise,  uneasily,  and,  lean- 
ing upon  one  elbow,  she  tried  to  look  in  her  daughter's  face. 

Beatrice  turned  toward  her,  and  if  her  mien  was  sorrowful 
and  grave,  it  was  also  firm  and  clear,  and  the  warm  light  from 
the  west  that  came  in  through  the  open  window  shone  on  it  and 
lit  it  well. 

"  Darling ! "  she  said,  gently,  "  we  have  a  very  hard  life  be- 
fore us,  a  very  hard  life  ;  but  there  is  only  one  thing  for  us  to 
do — let  us  be  true  to  one  another,  let  us  be  true.  Let  no  one, 
darling,  step  in  between  you  and  me,  and  suggest  this,  or  advise 
that,  it  would  not  be  for  your  good  or  for  mine.  There  is  but 
one  being  now  between  us,  let  us  not  put  two,  or  we  will  repent 
it  for  ever  ! " 

"  My  dear,"  faltered  Mrs.  Gervoise,  "  I  meant  well." 

"  I  know  you  did,  darling ;  but  it  would  be  perdition  and 
ruin.  I  know  Antony  Gervoise  I  know  him  well,  and  pity  him 
deeply ;  but  we  must  live  and  die  apart ;  between  that  young 
man  and  Beatrice  Gordon  there  never  can  be  the  least  bond  of 
friendship  or  of  love.     I  told  him  so  this  morning.     I  believe 


BEATEICE.  131 

that  is  why  he  has  left.  I  should  be  happy  to  think  that  we 
shall  never  meet  again,  but  I  suppose  I  must  not  hope  for  it." 

She  spoke  steadily  and  distinctly,  so  distinctly  that  one  might 
have  thought  she  was  anxious  every  word  she  uttered  might  be 
heard  to  the  furthest  extremity  of  the  room,  and  that  no  one 
within  hearing  should  doubt  her  meaning.  But  to  all  appear- 
ance, no  one,  save  Mrs.  Gervoise,  who  was  shedding  a  few  slow 
and  penitent  tears,  was  there  to  hear  Beatrice.  The  large  silent 
room  held  no  witnesses,  and  no  listeners  ;  the  open  window  was 
too  far  from  the  couch,  and  was  too  high  for  any  one  standing 
on  the  terrace  below  to  hear  what  passed  within.  And  yet  I 
dare  say  Beatrice  knew  what  she  was  saying  when  she  answered 
Mrs.  Gervoise's  plaintive  question  : 

"  What  shall  I  say  to  Mr.  Gervoise,  Beatrice?" 

"  He  will  not  question  you,  darling." 

And  Beatrice  was  right  enough.  Mr.  Gervoise  never  asked 
his  wife  how  she  had  fared  in  her  endeavours.  He  had  tried  an 
ambassador,  and  failed :  he  now  resolved  to  act  in  his  own  per- 
son, but,  before  doing  so,  he  wisely  gave  the  enemy  a  week's 
seeming  truce,  during  which  he  hoped  she  would  forget  the  at- 
tempt she  had  resented  so  keenly. 


CHAPTER  XVII.  r 

The  week  was  out  when  Beatrice  and  her  step-father  met  in 
the  flower-garden.  At  once  they  exchanged  a  declaration  of 
war.  Beatrice  was  bareheaded,  and  Mr.  Gervoise  objected  to 
it.  Beatrice  tossed  her  rebellious  black  curls,  and  replied  that 
she  liked  to  feel  the  wind  blowing  about  her.  It  was  Mr.  Ger- 
voise's  wont,  when  he  wanted  to  provoke  Beatrice  into  disobedi- 
ence, to  begin  very  wide  of  the  mark ;  accordingly,  wishing  her 
to  marry  Antony,  he  again  said  that  he  objected  to  her  walking 
about  bareheaded,  and  he  forbade  it. 

Beatrice's  answer  was  not  much  to  the  purpose. 

"  Mr.  Eaby  is  coming,"  she  said.  "  I  wrote  to  tell  him  that 
you  wanted  me  to  marry  Antony,  and  he  is  coming." 

"  You  confess  writing  to  my  friend  Mr.  Raby  for  the  purpose 
of  breeding  mischief  between  us  ! " 

"  I ! "  cried  Beatrice,  all  innocence.  "  I  only  told  him  you 
wanted  me  to  marry  Antony  ;  you  surely  would  not  object." 

Mr.  Gervoise  excelled  more  in  deeds  than  in  words ;  Bea- 
trice, on  the  contrary,  had  a  ready  tongue,  and  did  not  object  to 
using  it.  Besides,  if  Mr.  Raby  was  really  coming,  he  could  not 
draw  in  his  horns  with  too  much  speed,  so  he  mUdly  asked  when 
that  gentleman  would  arrive. 

"  I  only  know  that  he  is  sure  to  come,"  answered  Beatrice, 
walking  away. 

There  was,  unfortunately,  no  doubt  about  that. 

"  I  must  turn  the  matter  over,"  thought  Mr.  Gervoise. 

And  so  he  did,  and  to  some  purpose,  as  Beatrice  found. 

Mr.  Raby  arrived  late  one  evening.  He  had  aged  since  we 
saw  him  last,  and  got  very  stout  too,  but  he  was  little  changed 
otherwise.  Mr.  Gervoise  who  received  him,  congratulated  him 
on  his  florid  health,  and  Mr.  Raby  crossly  answered  that  looks 
signified  nothing.  Still  Mr.  Gervoise  overflowed  with  kindness 
and  good- will ;  would  he  see  Beatrice  ? — no,  it  might  excite  him, 
and  he,  Mr.  Gervoise,  could  see  Mr.  Raby  was  excitable.     In- 


BEATRICE.  133 

deed  it  was  a  pity  he  had  come  down  to  Camoosie  at  this  time 
of  the  year. 

"  I  shall  go  down  to  the  kitchen,"  crossly  said  Mr.  Raby, 
looking  at  the  black  hearth  of  the  cold  study.  "  I  see  you  have 
got  no  fires  yet,  and  Jones  tells  me  to  avoid  the  cold." 

"  Come  along,"  mysteriously  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  "  come  up- 
stairs with  me,  and  I  will  show  you  a  room  and  a  fire." 

Mr.  Raby  hesitated,  then  complied.  He  followed  Mr.  Ger- 
voise up-stairs,  and  was  shown  by  his  host  into  a  suite  of  rooms 
with  fires  blazing  in  every  chimney,  and  wax-lights  burning  on 
every  table.  The  inner  room,  which  was  also  the  pleasantest 
and  most  comfortable,  presented  Mr.  Raby  with  a  delightful 
prospect — a  well-laid  table  on  which  a  dainty  meal  was  waiting. 
It  ivas  a  delightful  prospect,  yet  Mr.  Raby  turned  away  and  sighed, 

"  Jones  says  I  must  have  no  suppers,"  he  said  faintly,  "  noth- 
ing but  gruel." 

"  Then  you  must  obey  Jones  by  all  means.  Mrs.  Scot, 
please  to  send  up  some  thin,  very  thin,  gruel  for  Mr.  Raby." 

Mrs.  Scot  came  forth  from  the  dark  corner  of  the  room, 
where  she  had  been  standing,  and  silently  departed  on  her  errand. 

"  It  would  be  a  mortal  sin  to  let  these  good  things  be 
wasted,"  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  "  so  I  shall  just  sit  down  and  take 
a  slight  repast." 

And  Mr.  Gervoise  sat  down  and  took,  not  a  slight,  but  an 
abundant  meal.  He  was  usually  a  spare  though  dainty  eater, 
but  Mr.  Gervoise  was  greedy  this  evening,  for  Panel  had  sur- 
passed himself. 

In  the  meanwhile  Mr.  Raby  sat  down  by  the  fire,  and  took 
his  thin  gruel  and  looked  irritated  and  sulky. 

"  I  do  not  think  Jones  would  forbid  this  partridge,"  suddenly 
said  Mr.  Gervoise. 

"Don't  you?  "  faintly  replied  Mr.  Raby. 

"  I  do  not  think  he  would." 

Mr.  Raby  hesitated,  Mr.  Gervoise  settled  the  matter  by  put- 
ting the  coveted  morsel  on  his  plate.  For  the  last  two  months 
Mr.  Raby  had  been  dieted  by  the  inexorable  Doctor  Jones.  He 
had  fasted  like  any  anchorite,  and  led  but  a  hard  life  of  it. 
Temptation  now  assailed  him,  and  such  temptation  as  Mr.  Raby 
did  not  know  how  to  withstand.  The  warm  room,  the  blazing 
fire,  the  easy  chair  in  which  he  sat — it  had  been  taken  out  of 
Mr.  Gervoise's  own  room — the  dainty  and  fragrant  viands  before 
him ;  all  these  coming  after  a  cold  journey  were  too  much  for 
Mr.  Raby's  fortitude.     His  eyes  glistened,  he  seized  his  knife 


134:  BEATRICE. 

and  fork  with  a  trembling  hand,  for  there  was  a  consciousness 
of  danger  and  sin  in  Mr.  Raby's  inner  heart,  and  he  ate. 

"  Jones  would  never  forgive  me,"  he  said  when  he  at  length 
pushed  his  plate  away. 

"  He  need  not  know  it,"  suggested  Mr.  Gervoise  blandly, 
"  and  I  am  so  glad  you  came.  Just  fancy  !  Antony  fell  in  love 
with  Beatrice,  and  proposed  to  her,  sir  !  I  soon  packed  him  off. 
He  is  cooling  himself  on  the  Scotch  moors  now." 

Mr.  Raby  looked  deeply  perplexed,  and  after  a  while  asked 
what  Mr.  Gervoise's  objection  to  the  match  might  be. 

"  My  dear  sir,  surely  I  need  not  tell  you  !  Now  don't  look 
so — so  very  much  amazed.  No  mysteries  between  us,  Mr.  Raby. 
All  above  board." 

"  Mr.  Gervoise,  you  agitate  me.     What  is  it?" 

"  Mr.  Raby,  you  do  not  mean  to  say  you  do  not  know  that 
poor  dear  Beatrice  is — how  shall.I  call  it  ? — eccentric  ?  " 

"Mad!" 

"  Eccentric,"  mildly  corrected  Mr.  Gervoise. 

Mr.  Raby  remained  silent,  stunned  with  the  magnitude  of 
the  blow.  If  Beatrice  was  mad,  as  he  plainly  termed  it,  why, 
then  his  fatal  trust  was  a  more  fearful  snare  than  ever.  What 
would  Jones  say  to  it?  If  Beatrice  was  mad,  she  must  be  locked 
up,  and,  more  horrible  still,  she  woTild  never  be  of  age — never  ! 
Mad  people  lived  long,  he  had  always  heard  so — it  was  too 
much. 

"Mr.  Gervoise,"  he  said  reproachfully,  "you  should  not 
have  told  me  so  after  supper,  it  might  have  been  the  death  of 
me.     It  was  enough  to  make  the  gout  fly  to  my  stomach." 

"  My  dear  sir,  how  was  I  to  know  you  were  not  aware  of  it? 
Beatrice  was  always  so.     Besides,  I  gave  you  many  hints." 

"  Is  she  dangerous  ?  " 

"  Rarely,"  kindly  replied  Mr.  Gervoise ;  "  indeed  hers  is 
insanity,"  the  word  seemed  to  slip  out,  "  under  its  subtlest  and 
mildest  form.  But  I  was  very  imprudent  in  allowing  her  and 
Antony  to  be  so  much  together.     It  is  hard  for  her,  poor  girl ! " 

Mr.  Raby  faintly  asked  if  Mr.  Gervoise  thought  him  safe  in 
his  room. 

"  Safe  ! .Beatrice  would  not  hurt  a  fly." 

"  Yes,  but  mad  people — " 

"  My  dear  sir,  you  must  not  call  Miss  Beatrice  Gordon,  the 
mistress  of  Carnoosie,  mad !  You  must  not  say  a  word  to  a 
soul  on  the  subject,  not  even  to  Doctor  Jones.  Come,  give 
me  your  word — mind  I  speak  in  strict  confidence." 


BEATRICE.  135 

Mr.  Gervoise  was  so  alarmed,  and  he  so  teased  and  worried 
Mr.  Eaby,  that  the  proniise  was  given  by  that  gentleman  ;  but 
he  kept  in  petto  the  resolve  of  writing  to  Jones  the  next  morning 
a  letter,  of  which  the  purport  should  be  :  "  Suppose  an  individual 
afflicted  with  the  gout  should  be  in  the  same  house  with  an 
insane  person,  what  might  the  consequences  be  to  the  aforesaid 
individual?" 

"  It  is  such  a  comfort  to  have  you  here,"  sighed  Mr.  Ger- 
voise, rising  ;  "I  shall  sleep  all  the  better  for  it  to-night." 

"  Shall  we  have  to  get  her  locked  up?"  asked  Mr.  Raby, 
gloomily. 

Mr.  Gervoise  looked  horrified.  Lock  up  the  mistress  of  Car- 
noosie !  Heaven  forbid.  No  ;  if  they  could  indeed  get  her 
safely  married.     Mr.  Raby  brightened. 

"  Wouldn't  your  son  ?  "  he  interrupted. 

"  Yes,  sir,  he  would  ;  but  you  do  not  suppose  I  would  entail 
the  curse  of  eccentricity  on  my  grandchildren." 

Mr.  Gervoise's  indignant  tone  silenced  Mr.  Raby.  Beatrice's 
step-father  resumed  : 

"  We  must  find  her  a  husband,  but,  first  of  all,  we  must 
enlighten  her.  Beatrice  has  a  vague  consciousness  of  her  infirm- 
ity ;  but  if  this  consciousness  became  certainty,  if  she  could 
know  her  real  mental  condition,  who  knows  but  it 'might  save 
her?" 

"Well,  then,  why  don't  you  tell  her?"  crossly  asked  Mr. 
Raby. 

"  She  would  not  believe  me ;  but  if  you,  with  your  fine 
tact—  " 

"  Mr.  Gervoise,  don't  try  that — don't." 

"You  decline?" 

"  I  do." 

"  I  dare  not." 

"  And  want  to  put  it  upon  me — thanks  !  " 

"  My  dear  sir,  Beatrice  would  not  hurt  a  fly.  But  being 
eccentric,  she  is  susceptible,  and  being  susceptible —  " 

"  I  tell  you,  sir,  that  I  will  not  have  the  poor  girl  going  off 
into  hysterics  in  my  presence.    Jones  would  never  forgive  me." 

"  Oh  !  if  you  plead  your  health,  I  am  dumb  ;  moreover,  my 
conscience  is  at  rest." 

And  thus,  pretty  sure  that  Mr.  Raby  would  not  repeat  a 
word  of  their  conversation  to  Beatrice,  Mr.  Gervoise  bade  him  a 
good  evening. 

Mr.  Raby  spent  a  sleepless  night.     Perhaps  his  supper  was 


136  BEATEICE. 

too  much  for  him,  and  Beatrice's  insanity,  and  his  position  as 
her  trustee,  were  enough  to  keep  him  awake,  and  make  Doctor 
Jones's  hair  stand  on  end.  If  she  would  but  marry  Antony ! 
A  mad  girl,  though  rich,  could  scarcely  hope  for  a  better  match. 
Thus  thought  Mr.  Raby,  until,  after  tossing  about  for  several 
hours,  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  might  take  the  word  of  some 
one  else  besides  Mr.  Gervoise,  concerning  Beatrice's  eccentricity. 

Chance — was  it  chance  ? — ^brought  Mrs.  Scot  to  his  rooms  the 
next  morning,  and  suggested  the  very  person  to  whom  he  should 
apply.  He  did  so  with  much  caution,  merely  asking  if  Miss 
Gordon  was  up. 

"  I  shall  see,  sir.     Miss  Gordon's  hours  vary." 

"  Do  they?     But  her  health  is  good,  I  hope." 

<'  Why,  yes,  sir,  considering." 

This  word  "  considering,"  tempted  Mr.  Raby ;  he  went  and 
shut  the  door,  then  came  back,  and  said  nervously : 

"  Mrs.  Scot,  you  have  been  years  in  the  family,  and  I  am 
Miss  Gordon's  trustee ;  strange  rumours  have  reached  me — 
allow  me  to  ask  you,  Mrs.  Scot,  how  far  they  are  founded  upon 
fact?"  ^ 

"What  rumours,  sir?"  asked  Mrs.  Scot,  bluntly. 

"  Mrs.  Scot,  what  did  you  mean  by  the  word  '  considering?' 
Why  should  it  be  '  considering  ? ' " 

"  I  did  not  say  '  considering,'  sir,"  sharply  said  Mrs.  Scot ; 
"  I  know  my  place  too  well,  I  hope,  to  say  '  considering.'  " 

"You  did,  Mrs.  Scot!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Raby,  excitedly — 
"  you  did,  and  you  owe  me  the  truth — I  am  Miss  Gordon's  trus- 
tee, and  I  have  got  the  gout,  and  excitement  may  be  fatal  to 
me." 

"Then  you  had  better  not  stay  in  Carnoosie,"  said  Mrs. 
Scot. 

"Why  so,  Mrs.  Scot?  just  tell  me  why?" 

"  The  air  is  exciting,  sir  ;  at  least,  I  always  heard  it  was." 

"  Mrs.  Scot,  I  appeal  to  your  conscience — I  lay  it  on  your 
conscience — what  is  the  matter  with  Miss  Gordon  ?  " 

"  Nothing  that  I  know  of,  sir,"  doggedly  replied  Mrs.  Scot. 

"Is  it  the  air  of  Carnoosie  that  disagrees  with  her? — is  it 
too  exciting  for  her  ?  " 

Mrs.  Scot  looked  sullen,  and  did  not  reply. 

"Is  she  excitable?"  implored  Mr.  Raby;  "you  can  surely 
teU  me  that,  Mrs.  Scot." 

"  Well,  sir,  I  think  she  is." 

"  And  eccentric  ?  " 


BEATRICE. 


13t 


Mrs.  Scot  looked  hard  at  him. 

"  That  will  do,  sir,"  she  said,  sternly ;  "  if  you  were  ten 
times  Miss  Gordon's  trustee,  I'll  answer  no  more  such  ques- 
tions. I  know  what  my  place  would  be  worth,  if  Mr.  Gervoise 
thought  that  I  told  tales  on  his  step-daughter,  and  I  don't  mind 
telling  you,  sir,  that  he  shall  know  every  word  as  has  passed 
between  us  this  morning." 

"As  you  please,  Mrs.  Scot,"  very  indignantly  rejoined  Mr. 
Raby,  who  had  forgotten  that  such,  whether  she  told  him  so  or 
not,  would  very  probably  be  Mrs.  Scot's  most  natural  proceed- 
ing ;  "as  you  please,  ma'am  ;  and  he  angrily  passed  by  her  and 
went  down-stairs.  In  the  hall  he  met  Beatrice.  He  could  not 
repress  a  little  start  on  seeing  her,  and,  with  her  quick  percep- 
tion, Beatrice  felt  it  was  not  a  start  of  pleasure. 

"  How  are  you,  Mr.  Raby  ? "  she  asked,  holding  out  her 
hand. 

"  Very  well,  my  dear,"  he  replied,  trying  not  to  look  nervous, 
"  and  how  are  you?" 

"  I  am  quite  well,"  replied  Beatrice  brightly. 

Mr.  Raby  longed  to  ask  if  her  head  ached,  or  if  this  windy 
morning  did  not  make  her  feel  excitable,  but  he  restrained  him- 
self, and,  unconscious  of  his  strange  manner,  stood  looking  at 
her  without  making  way  for  her  to  pass,  or  attempting  himself 
to  go  on. 

Beatrice  eyed  him  keenly. 

"  Will  you  look  at  the  garden,  Mr.  Raby?  "  she  asked  cheer- 
fully. 

Mr.  Raby  did  not  dare  to  decline  the  offer,  and  out  they 
went.  They  were  no  sooner  out  of  hearing  than  Beatrice  said 
quickly : 

"  Mr.  Raby,  are  you  offended  with  me? — did  I  do  wrong  to 
write  ?     Are  you  angry  ?  " 

In  great  trepidation  Mr.  Raby  hastened  to  reply : 

"My  dear,  I  am  not  at  all  offended,  I  was  delighted  to 
receive_your  letter,  and  I  am  delighted  to  see  you  !  " 

"  I  should  not  have  thought  so,"  drily  replied  Beatrice. 
"  At  all  events,  Mr.  Raby,  I  feel  and  know  that  Mr.  Gervoise 
has  been  saying  something  about  me  to  you." 

"  Not  a  word,"  hastily  interrupted  Mr.  Raby. 

Beatrice  looked  incredulous  and  disappointed. 

"  Whatever  it  may  be,"  she  persisted,  "  believe  nothing  of 
me  which  your  own  experience  does  not  confirm." 

She  spoke  with  a  sad  earnestness  which  struck  Mr.  Raby, 


138  BEATRICE. 

His  mind  felt  in  strange  confusion  ;  suppose  she  was  not  mad 
after  all.  Oh  !  how  he  would  like  Jones  to  be  here  !  Beatrice 
saw  the  advantage  she  had  gained,  and  she  pursued : 

"  I  was  wanted  to  marry  Antony  Gervoise.  Do  you  know 
him,  Mr.  Raby?" 

"  He  was  not  here  when  I  came  last." 

"  It  is  a  pity,"  said  Beatrice  with  a  bitter  laugh ;  "he  is  a 
tame  tiger,  you  know.  He  will  lick  your  hand  and  be  ready  to 
devour  you  ;  one  must  not  be  angry  with  him,  it  is  his  way." 

Mr.  Raby  loved  plain  language  ;  he  was  born  commonplace 
and  matter-of-fact,  and  Beatrice's  little  girlish  flight  of  speech, 
"  a  tame  tiger,"  gave  him  strange  thoughts.  With  a  cunning 
which  vas  not  in  his  nature,  and  which  intense  love  of  self- 
preservation  alone  could  draw  out,  he  laid  a  trap  for  Beatrice. 

"  'Is  that  young  man  really  a  tame  tiger  ?"  he  asked. 

"  He  is  indeed,  and  a  beautiful  tiger  too  ;  a  real  Bengal  na- 
tive of  the  jungle,  cruel  and  cowardly.  You  should  see  his 
smile,  it  is  frightful,  and  so  sweet.  Mr.  Gervoise  has  a  print 
like  it.  A  Joanna  of  Naples  by  Vinci ;  a  fair  lovely  girl  with 
delicate  lips,  but  so  perfidious.  She  was  a  Bluebeard,  you  know, 
and  killed  all  her  husbands.     She  too  was  a  tigress." 

Beatrice  spoke  with  some  animation,  her  eyes  sparkled,  her 
lips  were  parted — she  looked  excited.  Mr.  Raby  watched  her, 
and  a  vague  though  firm  conviction  that  Beatrice  was  on  the 
brink  if  she  had  not  passed  the  fearful  bounds  of  insanity,  entered 
his  mind,  and  sank  there,  never  to  be  removed  again. 

"  Don't  you  think  you  had  better  marry  him?"  he  said,  after 
a  brief  pause. 

"  Marry  Antony  !  "  exclaimed  Beatrice. 

"  Why,  yes,  my  dear,  I  confess  to  you  it  would  be  a  great 
relief  to  me  if  you  were  safely  married." 

And  Mr.  Raby  sighed  to  think  what  a  relief  it  would  be. 

"  But  I  cannot  marry  Antony,"  indignantly  cried  Beatrice  ; 
"  no  girl  who  knows  him  can,  it  would  be  rushing  on  ruin." 

"  Could  you  not  marry  his  brother?"  suggested  Mr.  Raby, 
suddenly  remembering  that  Mr.  Gervoise  had  once  mentioned 
something  of  the  kind. 

"  We  have  not  met  since  we  were  children,"  replied  Beatrice, 
becoming  crimson. 

"  My  dear,"  persisted  Mr.  Raby,  "  take  the  advice  of  a 
friend,  marry  as  soon  as  you  can." 

Beatrice  remained  mute.  She  had  nothing  to  say.  Mr. 
Raby  was  won  over  to  the  enemy ;  how  and  why  mattered  little, 


I 


BEATEICE.  130 

it  was  so.  She  looked  at  him  with  the  same  sad  earnestness 
she  had  betrayed  once  before,  and  again  it  moved  to  a  passing 
doubt.      But  Mr.  Raby  was  never  prompt  to  act  or  to  conclude. 

"  I  must  get  Jones  to  see  her,"  he  thought,  and  in  the  mean- 
while he  kept  the  vague  belief  of  Beatrice's  insanity,  referring 
certainly  to  a  doubtful  future.  Beatrice  walked  silently  by  his 
side  till,  turning  a  path,  they  met  Mr.  Gervoise,  brisk,  lively, 
and  cheerfiiiywith  a  smile  on  his  lips,  and  triumph  in  his  eye. 
Beatrice  answered-the  lootire  gave  her  with  one  that  said : 

"  Yes,  you  prevail  now,  but  my  turn  shall  come  yet." 

This  was  more  easily  said  than  done,  as  Beatrice  found. 
Mr.  Raby's  presence  happened  to  be  required  by  Mr.  Gervoise, 
who  thought  the  moment  a  favourable  one  for  accounts,  and  Mr. 
Raby  stayed  in  Carnoosie  and  lived  high.  "  In  for  a  penny,  in 
for  a  pound,"  he  recklessly  thought.  But  though  day  after  day 
Beatrice  watched  for  an  opportunity  of  speaking  to  her  trustee,  it 
never  came.  To  her  surprise  she  saw  that  Mr.  Gervoise  abetted 
her  efforts,  but  that  he  and  Mr.  Raby  were  at  issue  on  this  point. 
AU  her  attempts,  though  seconded  by  her  step-father,  were  baffled. 
If  this  gentleman  left  them  together,  Mr.  Raby  called  him  back, 
or  followed  him  out ;  if  she  met  Mr.  Raby  in  the  garden,  he 
retreated  precipitately  ;  if  she  went  into  the  house  after  him,  he 
took  refuge  in  his  rooms,  and  at  the  end  of  ten  days  he  said  one 
evening  that  he  would  leave  the  next  morning.  Again  Mr. 
Gervoise  looked  at  Beatrice,  who  smiled  scornfully. 

But  Beatrice's  resolve  was  taken.  She  would  see  Mr.  Raby 
and  speak  to  him  whether  he  liked  it  or  not.  She  would  know 
why  this  lukewarm  protector  had  become  almost  an  enemy.  She 
knew  that  he  sat  up  and  read  after  retiring  for  the  night,  and 
Beatrice's  mind  was  made  up — she  would  follow  him  to  his  last 
stronghold. 

"  Good  night,  my  dear,"  he  said,  turning  toward  her  as  he 
left  Mrs.  Gervoise's  sitting-room ;  "  and  good-bye,  too,  for  I  shall 
be  off  with  dawn." 

"  Good  night,  Mr.  Raby,"  quietly  replied  Beatrice,  "  I  shall 
see  you  before  you  go." 

With  some  uneasiness  Mr.  Raby  begged  that  she  would  not 
take  the  trouble  on  his  account.  Beatrice  smiled  without  an- 
swering, and  he  left  the  room. 

Beatrice  waited  awhile  before  she  left,  too.  She  went  to  her 
room  first,  then  slipped  down-stairs  again  and  stole  out  on  the 
terrace.  A  light  Avas  burning  in  the  window  of  Mr.  Raby's 
sitting-room — now  was  her  time.     Softly  and   noiselessly  she 


140  BEATBICE. 

entered  the  house  again.  To  reach  Mr.  Raby's  rooms  she  had 
to  pass  through  a  long  line  of  chambers  on  the  first  floor.  She 
did  so  in  the  dark,  and  at  length  found  herself  at  his  door.  There 
she  paused  and  listened.  Not  a  sound  betrayed  his  presence 
within,  yet  a  ray  of  light  stole  out  on  the  dark  landing — he  was 
there  still.  She  knocked  and  got  no  reply,  but  she  heard  a  piece 
of  wood  tumbling  down  into  the  fender.  She  knocked  again, 
still  Beatrice  received  no  intimation  to  enter.  She  took  heart, 
opened  the  door,  and  went  in  boldly,  saying, 

"  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Raby,  but  I  must  speak  to  you  before  you 
go." 

Mr.  Raby  neither  looked  up  nor  answered.  He  sat  near  a 
small  table  leaning  forward,  and  Beatrice  fancied  that  he  was 
writing.  She  fancied,  but  was  not  sure  ;  two  wax  lights  burnt 
on  the  table,  but  the  room  was  a  large  one,  and  she  stood  at  the 
further  extremity.  Whether  he  had  heard  her  or  not,  it  was  too 
late  to  retreat,  Beatrice  walked  steadily  toward  him,  and  when  « 

she  stood  near  his  chair  she  said  entreatingly  :  | 

"Do  not  be  offended  with  me,  Mr.  Raby,  I  cannot  help 
myself,  I  must  speak  to  you — do  not  be  offended." 

Mr.  Raby  did  not  stir.  He  still  leaned  forward,  a  sheet  of 
paper  lay  before  him,  a  pen  was  in  his  hand.  The  light  of  the 
two  wax  candles  shone  on  his  face — it  was  purple,  his  mouth 
was  half-open,  his  nether  lip  hung  a  little,  his  blue  eyes  were 
fixed  in  a  glassy  stare.  Beatrice  looked  at  him,  and  turned  cold 
with  dumb  horror.  It  was  not  Mr.  Raby  whom  she  saw,  and 
she  knew  it.  She  knew  that  grim  destroyer  whom  all  recognize 
from  man  to  his  dog  with  intuitive  knowledge  and  secret  hate  ; 
but  she  stood  powerless  to  move,  to  speak,  almost  to  breathe,  so 
awful  was  the  shock  of  surprise,  when  a  hand  was  laid  on  her 
shoulder.  She  turned  round  with  a  faint  cry  and  saw  Mr.  Ger- 
voise,  who  had  followed  her  unperceived. 

"  I  am  afraid  dear  Mr.  Raby  is  dead,"  composedly  said  her 
step-father,  walking  up  to  his  co-trustee. 

He  went  to  his  chair  and  shook  him. 

"  Apoplexy,  I  suppose,"  said  Mr.  Gervoise. 

"  Monsieur  Panel  knows  how  to  bleed,"  cried  Beatrice. 

She  sprang  to  the  bell  and  rang  it  violently.  The  call  was 
answered.  Monsieur  Panel  was  summoned  and  used  his  lancet, 
whilst  Doctor  Rogerson  was  sent  for.  For  the  blood  was  al- 
ready frozen  in  Mr.  Raby's  veins,  and  when  Dr.  Rogerson  came 
in  all  haste,  he  declared  life  to  have  been  extinct  some  time. 


BEATRICE.  141 

"  And  it  is  all  over  ! "  said  Beatrice,  looking  at  the  dead  man, 
who,  an  hour  ago,  had  stood  living  and  warm  before  her. 

"  All  over,  I  am  sorry  to  say,"  replied  Doctor  Rogerson. 

"Apoplexy,  I  suppose?"  suggested  Mr.  Gervoise. 

"  Just  so." 

"  Poor  dear  IVIr.  Raby  !  I  fear.  Monsieur  Panel,  your  good 
cheer  did  for  him.     I  really  fear  it." 

Beatrice  gave  her  step-father  a  keen  searching  look,  which 
he  bore  with  perfect  composure. 

And  this  was  the  end  of  Mr.  Raby. 

A  few  days  later  Mr.  Gervoise  followed  him  to  the  grave. 
"When  he  came  in  from  the  funeral,  he  said  to  his  wife,  with 
whom  Beatrice  was  sitting  : 

"  I  am  so  sorry  for  poor  Mr.  Raby,  but  he  ought  to  have 
known  better ;  Doctor  Jones  had  warned  him  against  high 
living,  and  poor  dear  Mr.  Raby  would  live  high.  It  was  not 
the  gout,  though,  that  carried  him  off,  but  apoplexy.  Poor  Mr. 
Raby !  we  shall  miss  him." 

"  God  help  me  !"  thought  Beatrice  ;  "  it  is  for  me  that  this 
man  died ! " 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

There  is  a  well-known  saying  concerning  Rome  and  the 
many  paths  that  lead  to  it.  Even  so  is  the  aim  of  a  strong  will ; 
every  road  can  bear  you  to  that  goal.  Mr.  Gervoise,  who  hated 
direct  action,  now  resolved  to  attack  the  citadel  of  Beatrice's 
rebellion  from  the  quarter  whence  she  least  expected  such  attack. 
She  loved  Mr.  Ray,  and  Mr.  Ray  belidved  in  Mr.  Gervoise. 
Now  then  was  the  time  to  make  use  of  this  valuable  though 
unconscious  ally.  Mr.  Ray  had  recovered  his  usual  health,  and 
was  once  more  a  daily  visitor  at  Carnoosie.  On  the  morning 
that  followed  the  day  of  Mr.  Raby's  funeral,  Mr.  Gervoise,  who 
was  laudably  anxious  to  render  Mr.  Ray  useful  without  delay, 
asked- that  gentleman  to  join  him  in  the  study. 

Mr.  Ray  had  come  early  in  order  to  read  longer  with  Bea- 
trice, and  being  a  methodical  man,  he  was  annoyed  at  Mr.  Ger- 
voise's  request.  He  asked  if  it  would  not  do  after  his  lesson. 
Very  gravely  Mr.  Gervoise  assured  him  it  would  not ;  and  Mr. 
Ray  yielded,  and,  being  a  good  man,  smiled  internally  at  his 
own  discomposure. 

"And  how  is  dear  Miss  Ray?"  began  Mr.  Gervoise,  confi- 
dentially. 

"  My  sister  is  very  well,  I  am  much  obliged  to  you." 

"  I  am  so  glad.  Miss  Ray  and  I  are  great  cronies.  Mr. 
Ray,  I  would  advise  you  to  take  care  of  her." 

Now  it  was  one  of  Mr.  Ray's  peculiarities  to  consider  Miss 
Ray  as  quite  a  girl ;  he  took  this  harmless  joke  amiss.  What 
business  had  Mr.  Gervoise,  a  married  man,  to  talk  so  of  Miss 
Ray  ?     It  was  scarcely  delicate.     He  looked  stiff. 

"  I  have  a  great  admiration  for  Miss  Ray — especially  for  her 
character,"  persisted  Mr.  Gervoise  ;  "  it  is  a  beautiful  character, 
Mr.  Ray." 

"It  is,  sir,"  warmly  said  Mr. -Ray,  "a  lovely  character,  I 
may  say  ;  there  is  something  quite  angelic  about  Miss  Ray." 

"  There  is,"  sententiously  said  Mr.  Gervoise  ;  "  but  if  I  make 


BEATKICE.  143 

her  the  topic  of  discourse,  Mr.  Ray,  it  is  that  I  have  a  purpose 
iu  letting  you  know  my  high  appreciation  of  Miss  Ray.  Sir — I 
want  her." 

Mr.  Ray  looked  inquiring. 

"  I  want  her,  sir,  for  my  poor  Beatrice — a  good,  warm-hearted 
girl,  but  sadly  in  need  of  some  wholesome  feminine  teaching. 
Mrs.  Gervoise  is  too  delicate,  Mr.  Ray,  and  you  and  I  are  men 
unable  to  compete  with  a  high-spirited  girl.    We  want  Miss  Ray." 

Mr.  Ray  remained  silent,  and  looked  thoughtful.  He  could 
not  imagine  what  Miss  Ray  was  wanted  for. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  Beatrice  is  a  little  bit  of  a  flirt," 
continued  Mr.  Gervoise  ;  "  my  son  Antony  has  to  my  great 
displeasure  been  paying  her  some  attention  lately ;  I  had  other 
views  for  him,  but  boys  will  be  boys,  and  Beatrice  encouraged 
him.  In  short,  matters  came  to  a  crisis.  He  proposed,  without 
my  knowledge,  and  was  accepted — still  without  my  knowl- 
edge. How  I  discovered  the  truth  matters  little ;  my  first 
act  was  to  send  Antony  out  of  the  house.  I  even  thought 
every  thing  could  be  put  a  stop  to  at  once ;  but,  Mr.  Ray,  it 
could  not.  It  cannot,  Mr.  Ray — Beatrice's  name  is  at  stake. 
Miss  Jameson,  Mrs.  Scot,  the  servants,  have  seen  what  has 
been  going  on.  I  was  blind,  but  they  were  clear-sighted  ;  there 
is  but  one  remedy  now — they  must  marry.  Mr.  Raby,  my  late 
co-trustee,  and  I  were  agreed  on  this  point — the  sooner  Beatrice 
becomes  my  son's  wife  the  better  it  will  be.  The  young  lady, 
however,  has  changed  her  mind,  or  says  she  has  ;  and  after  going 
as  far  with  Antony  as  she  could  well  go,  she  will  not  have  him. 
Now,  Mr.  Ray,  I  will  be  frank  with  you.  I  would  rather  they 
did  not  marry ;  but  in  duty,  in  honour,  can  I  do  less  than  make 
this  thoughtless  girl  marry  the  man  with  whom  she  has  gone  so 
very  far  ?  It  is  for  this  that  I  want  dear  Miss  Ray.  She  alone 
can  show  Beatrice  the  matter  in  its  true  light." 

This  speech,  which  Mr.  Gervoise  had  weighed  well,  had  many 
good  points.  It  was  almost  all  true  ;  Beatrice  had  flirted  with 
Antqny,  or  at  least  she  had  said  and  done  with  him  what  Miss 
Jameson,  Mrs.  Scot,  and  the  servants  had  called  flirtation. 
Moreover,  Mr.  Ray  had  seen  it  with  perplexity  and  pain,  and 
was  ready  to  believe  Mr.  Gervoise  in  this  matter.  His  assist- 
ance, therefore,  modestly  asked  under  Miss  Ray's  name,  was 
almost  secure  on  this  head.  But  unfortunately  Mr.  Gervoise 
went  too  far  ;  a  hair's-breadth  did  it — a  want  of  delicacy  in  his 
words,  in  his  tones,  and  looks,  and  hints,  shocked  and  angered 
the  gentle  Mr.  Ray.     Beatrice,  his  darling  Beatrice,  the  soul  of 


14:4:  BEATRICE. 

maidenly  innocence  and  womanly  honour,  accused  of  going  too 
far  with  Antony — ^with  any  man  !  It  was  too  much  ;  his  eyes 
lit,  his  lips  quivered. 

"Mr.  Gervoise,"  he  said,  "have  you  weighed  your  words 
well?" 

"  Quite  well,"  deliberately  replied  Mr.  Gervoise. 

"  Well,  then,  sir,"  indignantly  said  Mr.  Ray,  rising  and  sit- 
ting down  again,  "  you  are  mistaken." 

"  I  am  not  mistaken  in  you,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Gervoise, 
rising,  and  looking  down  at  Mr.  Ray  from  the  heights  of  indig- 
nant virtue.  "  I  know  you,  I  have  watched  you  and  that  de- 
luded girl.  I  need  say  no  more.  Please  to  leave  this  house, 
sir." 

It  was  with  the  grandest  courtesy  that  Mr.  Gervoise  inflicted 
this  insult  on  Beatrice's  teacher,  and  waved  his  hand  toward  the 
door.  The  blood  flew  to  Mr.  Ray's  pale  face,  and  settled  there 
in  an  indignant  flush.  He  rose  and  left  the  room  without  deign- 
ing to  answer  one  word.  He  was  calm,  though  sad,  when  he 
reached  the  cottage. 

"  How  is  dear  Mr.  Gervoise  ?  "  asked  Miss  Ray ;  "  he  looked 
so  ill  at  the  funeral  yesterday." 

"  We  have  been  deceived  in  Mr.  Gervoise,  my  dear,"  sighed 
Mr.  Ray.     "  I  am  sorry  for  Beatrice." 

And  leaving  Miss  Ray  with  an  uplifted  watering-pot  in  her 
hand,  so  great  was  her  amazement,  Mr.  Ray  entered  his  study, 
and  tried  to  calm  his  mind  and  pray. 

Beatrice  sat  in  the  library,  vainly  waiting  for  Mr.  Ray. 
What  ailed  him  that  he  did  not  come  ?  Was  he  ill  again  ?  She 
looked  at  the  heavy  clock  in  its  carved  oaken  case.  Mr.  Ray 
was  an  hour  behind  his  time. 

"  He  will  not  come  to-day,"  thought  Beatrice,  with  a  sigh. 

Even  as  she  came  to  this  conclusion,  the  door  of  the  library 
opened,  and  Mr.  Gervoise  appeared.  Beatrice's  face  darkened. 
Mr.  Gervoise  never  entered  the  library ;  that  apartment  was 
Beatrice's  by  tacit  consent.  What  brought  his  hateful  presence 
to  the  spot  which,  since  Gilbert  was  gone,  had  never  known  any 
visitor  save  her  pale  and  gentle  master  ?  She  rose  abruptly,  as 
if  to  leave  the  room. 

"  Pray  be  seated,"  gracefully  said  Mr.  Gervoise.  "  I  want 
the  favour  of  your  society  for  just  five  minutes,  no  more.  I 
have  a  matter  of  importance  to  mention." 

Beatrice  half  smiled.  She  could  guess  what  was  coming, 
but  she  declared  herself  ready  to  bestow  on  Mr.  Gervoise  the 


BEATEICE.  145 

favour  he  so  respectfully  solicited.  The  window  was  open.  Mr. 
Gervoise  closed  it  carefully,  opened  the  door  to  see  that  no  one 
was  listening  outside,  then,  returning  to  Beatrice,  he  began  with 
a  confidential  whisper : 

*'  I  heard  from  Antony  this  morning.  Beatrice,  he  is  a  noble 
boy." 

He  looked  amiably  at  her,  but,  alas !  his  bloated  face  and 
weak  eyes  now  belied  all  amiable  meaning. 

"  He  wrote  about  you,  Beatrice,  most  tenderly.  Beatrice,  I 
do  not  wish  to  be  severe,  but  why  trifle  with  him  ?  Why  en- 
courage, then  banish  him  ?  Take  care,  he  loves  you  fondly,  but 
do  not  be  imprudent." 

"  Mr.  Gervoise,  that  will  not  do,"  haughtily  said  Beatrice. 

"  No,  my  dear,  it  will  not." 

Beatrice  rose  to  leave  the  room.  Mr.  Gervoise  rose  too,  and 
stood  between  her  and  the  door. 

"  Miss  Gordon,"  he  said,  "  this  is  unbecoming ;  it  is  indeco- 
rous.    You  will  compel  me  to  take  strong  measures." 

"I  wonder  what  you  will  do?"  asked  Beatrice,  her  black 
eyes  laughing  with  more  mischief  than  anger. 

"  All  that  a  parent  and  guardian  should  do,  madam.  I  will 
lock  you  up  if  need  be." 

"  Lock  me  up  ! "  said  Beatrice,  seemingly  amazed.  "  Lock 
me  up,  to  make  me  marry  Antony?" 

"  No,  madam.  No,  Miss  Gordon,  not  for  that,  but  because 
you  have  low  inclinations,"  added  Mr.  Gervoise,  very  grandly, 
and  waving  his  hands,  as  if  to  dispel  the  gross  vapour  of  Beatrice's 
perversity  from  before  his  immaculate  countenance.  "  Low  in- 
clinations, I  say,  which  a  guardian  is  bound  to  resist,  even  by 
the  use  of  lock  and  key.     I  regret  to  add  that  I  can  prove  it." 

A  blush  of  shame  and  indignation  rose  to  Beatrice's  open 
brow  and  clear  cheek,  a  disdainful  smile  curled  her  finely-carved 
lips,  and  she  left  the  room  without  a  word. 

Mr.  Gervoise  did  not  attempt  to  detain  her.  They  met  in 
the  course  of  the  day,  and  he  did  not  renew  the  subject ;  but 
when  Beatrice  went  to  her  mother's  room  after  dinner,  Mr.  Ger- 
voise followed  her  up,  and  said,  with  much  dignity  : 

"  Miss  Gordon,  may  I  hope  you  are  ready  to  express  some 
regret  for  your  disrespectful  language  ?  " 

Beatrice,  who  sat  embroidering  near  the  table,  was  mute. 

Mrs.  Gervoise  half  sat  up  on  her  couch,  and  entreatingly 
said :  "  My  dear  ! " 

Thus  adjured,  Beatrice  spoke. 
7 


146  BEATEICE. 

"  I  will  never  marry  Antony,"  slie  said,  deliberately. 

"  Madam,  you  know  that  I  do  not  wish  you  to  marry  An- 
tony ;  but  since  you  compel  me  to  touch  on  this  subject,  let  me 
tell  you  that  you  shall  not  have  the  dangerous  liberty  of  going  to 
your  ruin.     I  will  confine  you  to  your  room,  if  need  be." 

Beatrice  laughed  a  low  silvery  laugh,  full  of  disdain.  Her 
cheek  was  resting  on  her  hand,  her  eyes  were  bent  on  the  floor. 
She  laughed  again,  and  looked  up  in  his  face. 

"  Strange  that  you  should  know  me  so  little,"  she  said. 
"  "Why,  these  eleven  years  of  strife  have  always  ended  in  your 
defeat,  and  you  think  to  conquer  me  now,  Mr.  Gervoise." 

"  Beatrice  ! — Beatrice  !"  entreated  her  mother. 

"I  shall  not  say  another  word,"  said  Beatrice,  softly ;  "  and 
lest  I  should  be  tempted  I  shall  bid  you  good  night  at  once,  dar- 
ling." 

She  softly  kissed  her  cheek  and  left  the  room.  Mr.  Gervoise 
glared  after  her,  and  then  he  glared  at  his  wife,  but  he  did  not 
speak.  It  was  one  of  this  man's  peculiarities  that  his  wrath 
found  no  external  outlet.  He  could  not  stamp  or  rave  or  swear. 
His  was  not  the  open  and  violent  passion  of  a  more  generous 
nature.  Within  him  boiled  and  seethed  the  venom  which  with 
others  evaporates  in  speech.  It  remained  in  his  heart,  it  mingled 
with  his  very  blood — a  fearful  poison  to  himself  as  well  as  a  dan- 
ger to  his  enemy.  The  disease  which  preyed  on  his  vitals  and 
showed  itself  in  his  blotched  face,  had  found  its  source  in  that 
mental  idiosyncrasy.  The  outward  man  figured  the  inward  man 
in  more  respects  than  one.  If  he  had  dared,  Mr.  Gervoise 
would  have  struck  his  helpless  and  innocent  wife,  and  thus  taken 
fit  revenge  for  Beatrice's  insolence.  But  he  was  not  weak  in  his 
badness,  and  on  principle  he  had  ever  shunned  violence.  His 
great  guide  and  moral  code  was  the  law.  So  far  as  it  would  let 
him  go,  he  went,  without  remorse  or  shame — never  a  step  be- 
yond it.  No  temptation  could  make  him  swerve  from  this  line — 
no  seeming  impunity  could  lead  him  into  possible  peril.  Blows 
leave  marks,  or,  when  inflicted  on  the  weak,  cause  cries  and 
screams ;  and  servants,  though  bribed,  may  not  be  faithful  to 
their  corrupter.  Never,  therefore,  had  Mr.  Gervoise  laid  a  fin- 
ger on  his  much-sufiering  wife.  He  had  other  and  safer  means 
of  torment  at  his  command. 

"  Mrs.  Gervoise,"  he  said,  after  Beatrice  had  left  the  room, 
"  matters  have  come  to  a  sad  issue  between  your  daughter  and 
me.  I  advise  you  to  interfere  for  her  sake,  if  not  for  mine.  I  will 
do  my  duty  to  her,  come  what  may,  and  that  duty  is  to  conquer 


BEATRICE.  147 

her  rebellious  spirit  and  diseased  inclinations.  After  going  as 
far  with  my  son  Antony  as  she  could  well  go,  your  daughter  has 
committed  herself  with  a  person  whom  I  shall  not  name  ;  but 
whom,  with  my  consent,  she  shall  never  see  again — never,  JSIrs. 
Gervoise.  I  have  given  her  fair  warning  of  the  course  I  mean 
to  pursue — ^fair  warning.  Since  I  cannot  by  mild  arguments 
prevail  with  her,  compulsion,  such  compulsion  as  a  guardian  and 
a  father  has  a  right  to  use,  shall  be  my  method.  Miss  Gordon 
shall  not  leave  her  room  until  she  becomes  amenable  to  reason." 

Mrs.  Gervoise's  pale  lips  parted  to  reply,  but  her  husband 
waved  his  hand  and  said  briefly — 

"  Not  now,  Mrs.  Gervoise,  not  now." 

And  without  giving  her  time  to  speak,  he  left  the  room. 

She  rose  trembling  and  ready  to  weep,  for  the  least  emotion 
tried  her  too  much.  She  went  at  once  to  Beatrice's  room,  and 
she  found  Beatrice  writing  a  letter. 

"  My  dear,"  she  entreated,  "  Beatrice,  what  are  you  doing?" 

"  I  am  writing  to  Mr.  Ray,  darling." 

"  Oh !  Beatrice,  my  dear,  do  not.  Mr.  Gervoise  is  dread- 
fully angry.  I  know  he  is  mistaken,  but  do  not  write  to  Mr. 
Bay ;  he  means  to  lock  you  up,  Beatrice." 

"  So  he  has  told  me,"  answered  Beatrice  composedly. 

"  Beatrice,  do  yield  for  once." 

Beatrice  gave  her  mother  a  tender,  compassionate  look. 

"  Darling,  how  can  you  speak  so?"  she  asked.  "To  yield 
would  be  to  sink  into  our  double  ruin,  yours  as  well  as  mine.  I 
cannot  yield.  Besides,  do  you  suppose  it  is  Mr.  Ray  he  desires 
me  to  give  up  ?  Why,  he  does  not  care  about  Mr.  Ray,  the 
mildest,  the  most  inoffensive  of  human  beings.  He  wants  me  to 
marry  Antony,  that  is  why  he  locks  me  up,  darling,  for  that,  and 
nothing  else." 

Mrs.  Gervoise  wrung  her  hands  and  moaned  piteously. 

''  But  if  he  does  lock  you  up,  Beatrice,  what  is  to  become  of 
us?" 

Beatrice  smiled  and  looked  at  the  little  French  clock  on  her 
mantel-piece.  The  gilt  Cupid  seated  on  the  round  ball-like  dial 
was  now  pointing  to  ten. 

"  I  am  not  locked  up  yet,"  said  Beatrice,  "  and  before  this 
hour  to-morrow  I  shall  not  only  be  free,  but  Mr.  Gervoise  him- 
self will  entreat  me  to  leave  my  room,  and  resume  my  liberty. 
Trust  to  me,  darling,  and  go  and  sleep.  There  is  a  kiss  for  you, 
good  night." 

Mrs.  Gervoise  submitted — she  was  accustomed  to  yield  to 


148  BEATRICE. 

Beatrice,  to  trust  in  and  believe  her.  Besides,  what  could  she 
do  ?  She  was  the  most  gentle,  but  also  the  weakest  and  most 
helpless  of  beings,  and  but  for  her  daughter  would  long  ago  have 
sunk  into  abject  slavery.  It  was  Beatrice  who  was  strong  and 
resolute  for  both.  But  there  were  times  when  the  task  was  too 
arduous,  when  the  unnatural  strain  on  this  young  girl's  mind  and 
energies  conquered  her,  and  she  sank  prostrate  beneath  the  heavy 
burden. 

When  the  door  closed  on  her  mother,  Beatrice  felt  very  weak 
and  very  worn.  She  laid  her  head  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  and 
clasping  her  hands  above  it,  longed  with  wild  and  passionate 
longing  for  rest,  even  though  that  rest  should  be  that  of  the 
grave.  She  could  not  help  it.  She  knew  Mr.  Gervoise,  she 
knew  what  was  coming,  and  she  shrank  with  horror  and  loath- 
ing from  a  struggle  so  remorseless.  Tears,  of  which  she  was 
not  conscious,  flowed  down  her  cheeks,  and  she  only  felt  them 
when  the  door  opened,  and  looking  up  she  saw  Mr.  Gervoise, 
and  indignantly  checked  and  shook  them  away.  Scarcely  had 
he  entered  the  room,  when  he  saw  on  the  table  the  letter  Bea- 
trice was  writing,  and  which  her  mother  had  interrupted.  With 
a  dart  forward  Mr.  Gervoise  seized  the  prey,  and  having  read 
the  first  words,  "  My  dear  Mr.  Ray,"  he  crushed  the  paper  in- 
dignantly in  his  hands,  and  looked  with  severe  displeasure  at 
Beatrice. 

"  Miss  Gordon,"  he  said,  "  once  for  all,  I  forbid  you  to  have 
any  intercourse  with  that  person— once  for  all." 

Beatrice  rose,  looked  at  him  disdainfully,  and  did  not  answer. 
Mr.  Gervoise  continued : 

"  I  shall  call  on  Mr.  Ray  this  very  evening,  and  express  to 
him  my  sense  of  his  conduct." 

"  Mr.  Gervoise,"  said  Beatrice,  with  some  emotion,  "  Mr. 
Ray  is  in  ill-health  ;  be  careful  of  w^hat.you  do.  Doctor  Roger- 
son  has  acknowledged  to  me  that  any  strong  emotion  might  be 
fatal  to  him." 

Mr.  Gervoise  looked  disdainful. 

"  That  is  not  the  question.  Miss  Gordon,"  he  said ;  "  the 
question  is,  whether  you  will  be  submissive  or  not?  " 

"  Je  comprends  I "  replied  Beatrice,  in  French,  and  using 
words  which  were  often  in  Mr.  Gervoise's  mouth.  "  Mr.  Ray 
has,  as  you  justly  say,  nothing  to  do  with  this  ;  the  question  is, 
will  I  marry  Antony  or  not  ?  My  submission  failing,  I  am  to 
be  locked  up.  My  reply  is  this  :  lock  me  up  at  your  peril,  lock 
me  up  if  you  dare  !  " 


BEATEICE.  149 

Beatrice  spoke  in  a  clear,  distinct,  and  even  voice,  neither 
loud  nor  passionate.  Her  dark  eyes  flashed  with  gentle  light, 
and  shone  on  Mr.  Gervoise  with  radiant  defiance.  A  smile, 
sweet  in  its  disdain,  curled  her  delicate  lips.  She  had  never  in 
her  whole  life  looked  half  so  handsome  as  she  did  then,  and  Mr. 
Gervoise,  who  saw  himself  in  the  glass  above  her  toilette  table, 
hated  her  cordially  for  her  beauty. 

"  Miss  Gordon,"  he  said,  "  I  warn  you  to  attempt  escape  at 
your  peril.  The  windows  are  high,  you  might  find  it  dangerous, 
and  the  law  would  justify  me." 

Beatrice  shook  her  head  and  laughed. 

"  Escape  ! "  she  said ;  "  and  escape  through  the  window, 
and  that  in  my  own  house,  too !  You  do  not  know  me,  Mr. 
Gervoise.  No,  trust  me,  a  free  heart  has  other  ways  of  securing 
liberty.  And  now  please  to  leave  me.  This  room  is  mine,  and 
though  you  may  lock  the  door,  I  do  not  suppose  you  mean  to  re- 
main in  it.  The  house  is  large,  and  I  can  spare  you  another 
and  a  better  one." 

"Madam,"  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  T\dth  his  grandest  courtesy, 
"  I  shall  keep  a  record  of  that  speech." 

''  Do,"  replied  Beatrice,  sitting  down  at  her  toilette  table,  and 
shaking  back  her  curls  from  her  flushed  face. 

In  the  mirror  before  her  she  saw  Mr.  Gervoise  smile,  then 
turn  to  the  door,  open  it  softly,  and  steal  out  through  the  narrow 
opening. 

"  A  serpent,  a  real  serpent ! "  thought  Beatrice,  and  she 
laughed  scornfully  to  herself  as  the  key  turned  in  the  lock. 

Beatrice  was  a  prisoner  in  her  own  house,  and  within  a  few 
months  of  her  majority.  Her  courage  had  risen  with  the  con- 
test of  words  between  her  and  Mr.  Gervoise  ;  but  now  that  she 
was  alone,  she  could  not  help  thinking  rather  sadly : 

"  I  wonder  if  the  girls  who  have  been  reared  with  infinite 
love  and  tenderness,  around  whom  every  thing  has  smiled  from 
their  birth,  I  wonder  if  they  knew  their  happiness  ?  I  dare  say 
not.  I  dare  say  they  think  more  of  not  having  a  new  dress,  of 
not  going  to  this  ball,  of  not  having  that  man  for  a  partner,  than 
I  do  of  sitting  here  alone  in  this  great  house,  which  is  mine, 
locked  up  in  my  room,  at  the  mercy  of  a  man  who  is  fattening 
on  my  substance.  Poor  silly  things  !  no  wonder  they  go  through 
life  like  butterflies,  never  having  had  aught  save  its  sunshine  and 
its  flowers.  No  wonder  they  don't  know  how  to  grow  old,  and 
remain  children  till  they  die  !  "  * 


160  BEATRICE. 

And  Beatrice  sighed,  and  leaning  her  cheek  on  her  hand, 
felt  old  in  sorrow  and  in  care — very  old  indeed.  But  she  wag 
young  in  years  after  all.  Five  minutes  had  not  passed  before 
Beatrice,  rising,  shook  her  bright  head,  and  smiled  defiantly  at 
Mr.  Gervoise.  Five  minutes  later  her  head  lay  on  her  pillow, 
and  Beatrice  was  fast  and  sound  asleep. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

At  eight  the  next  morning  Beatrice's  door  was  unlocked, 
and  Mrs.  Scot  entered  the  room,  bearing  a  traj,  on  which  was 
Beatrice's  breakfast. 

Beatrice  had  overslept  herself.  Mrs.  Scot's  entrance  awoke 
her.  She  opened  her  eyes,  leaned  up  on  one  elbow,  and  looked 
dreamily  at  the  stern  housekeeper,  who  was  silently  and  busily 
laying  the  breakfast-things  on  a  small  square  table. 

"  You  need  not,  Mrs.  Scot,"  composedly  said  Miss  Gordon. 
"  I  shall  not  breakfast  in  my  room.  Take  those  things  down- 
stairs, and  tell  Mr.  Gervoise  that  I  shall  either  breakfast  below 
or  not  at  all." 

Mrs.  Scot  took  no  notice  of  this  speech,  and  went  on  setting 
the  table.  Beatrice  smiled,  and  curling  round  in  her  bed,  pre- 
pared for  another  sleep.  Mrs.  Scot  left  the  room,  turned  the 
key  in  the  lock,  and  walked  down-stairs. 

"  Naw  comes  the  battle  between  hunger  and  Beatrice  Gor- 
don," thought  the  mistress  of  Carnoosie.  "  I  wonder  what  it  is 
to  be  really  hungry?  I  shall  know  it  before  the  sun  sets.  Cha- 
teaubriand, whom  I  was  reading  the  other  day,  knew  it  too.  In 
the  very  city  to  which  he  returned  ambassador  in  state,  he  fasted 
three  days,  looking  in  with  famished  eyes  at  the  shops  where 
food  lay  visible,  and  unattainable.  Mr.  Gervoise  will  never  keep 
me  locked  up  three  days,  but  he  will  leave  food  within  my  reach, 
the  tempting  serpent !  I  shall  know  what  the  torments  of  Tan- 
talus were  ;  bearable  enough,  I  dare  say." 

Beatrice  was  too  proud  to  shrink  from  her  self-injflicted  trial. 
She  rose,  dressed  leisurely,  and  with  care,  and  sat  down  and 
read.  Mrs.  Scot  found  her  thus  engaged  when  she  came  up 
with  her  luncheon.  This  time  Beatrice  did  not  deign  to  address 
her,  but  never  raised  her  eyes  from  her  book.  Thus  passed  the 
day.  Beatrice's  luncheon  shared  the  fate  of  Beatrice's  break- 
fast, and  when  dinner-time  came  round,  and  INIrs.  Scot  appeared 
again,  she  found  the  second  meal  untouched  and  untasted  like 


162  BEATRICE. 

the  first.  She  tried  to  catch  a  look  of  Beatrice's  face,  and  to 
read  there  how  she  bore  this  long  fast ;  but  Miss  Gordon  stood 
by  the  open  window,  looking  out  at  her  trees,  on  which  the 
western  light  shone  full  and  golden,  and  her  back  remained 
turned  to  Mrs.  Scot. 

The  account  which  the  housekeeper  gave  of  what  was  pass- 
ing in  Beatrice's  room,  was  probably  not  quite  satisfactory  to  her 
master,  for  she  had  not  been  gone  five  minutes,  before  the  door 
she  had  locked  was  opened  again,  and  Mr.  Gervoise  himself  ap- 
peared.    This  time  Beatrice  looked  round. 

"  Miss  Gordon,"  he  said,  with  virtuous  indignation,  "  what 
is  the  meaning  of  this?" 

Beatrice  smiled  haughtily  and  defiantly  in  his  face. 

"  I  told  you  so,"  she  said ;  "  I  told  you  that  a  free  heart  has 
other  means  of  escape  than  either  doors  or  windows.  I  am  no 
tame  bird,  Mr.  Gervoise,  to  be  kept  in  a  cage,  and  be  fed  there. 
Try  if  you  can  starve  me  into  submission,  and  conquer  me  thus, 
if  you  can  or  dare  !  " 

"  Miss  Gordon,"  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  in  a  cold,  distinct  voice, 
"you  shall  not  leave  this  room  until  you  have  acknowledged 
yourself  conquered." 

Without  waiting  for  her  answer,  he  left  the  room,  and  again 
locked  the  door.  The  sun  set,  twilight,  then  night  came.  No 
light  was  brought  to  Beatrice.  "  Solitary  confinement  in  all  its 
pleasantness,"  she  thought ;  "  well,  it  must  be  borne,  I  suppose." 
She  began  to  feel  very  faint  and  exhausted.  She  threw  herself, 
dressed  as  she  was,  on  her  bed,  but  sleep  would  not  come  to  her. 
She  was  lightheaded,  giddy,  and  weak.  She  tried  to  forget  the 
food  which  lay  within  reach  on  her  table,  but  she  could  not.  It 
haunted  her.  She  thought  of  it  with  a  restless  and  eager  long- 
ing, that  grew  in  intensity  as  time  sped.  It  seemed  days  since  a 
morsel  had  passed  her  lips.  All  the  tales  of  famished  prisoners, 
or  starving  mariners,  which  Beatrice  had  ever  read,  came  back 
to  her  now.  The  crew  of  the  Medusa^  Ugolino  in  his  prison, 
were  her  companions  in  this  sickening  vigil.  There  were  mo- 
ments when  her  courage  failed  her,  when  she  thought  of  yield- 
ing ;  but  then  pride  stung  her  fiercely,  and  the  memory  of  Mr. 
Gervoise's  mocking  eye  g^ve  her  power  to  bear  and  suffer.  It 
was  near  midnight,  and  Beatrice  was  sinking  into  feverish  slum- 
bers, when  a  light  which  flashed  across  her  eyes  awoke  her.  She 
looked  up  and  saw  her  mother's  tearful  face  bending  over  her. 

"  Beatrice,  my  treasure,  my  darling,"  she  said,  "  if  you  love 
me,  take  something ;  eat,  drink — ^take  something." 


BEATRICE.  163 

" I  have  drunk,"  replied  Beatrice ;  "do  not  trouble  about 
me,  darling,  it  will  be  nothing,  and  I  shall  soon  be  free." 

Mrs.  Gervoise  wrung  her  hands. 

"  Beatrice,  he  says  he  will  not  yield,  and  you  know  him. 
Beatrice,  if  you  do  not  wish  to  break  my  heart,  give  in  and  eat. 
Oh !  Beatrice,  it  drives  me  distracted  to  think  you  have  eaten 
nothing  this  whole  day." 

She  could  scarcely  speak  for  tears  and  sobs.  Beatrice  sat 
up  in  her  bed,  and  drawing  her  mother  toward  her,  she  said 
gently  and  soothingly : 

"  Darling,  listen  to  me,  and  mind  every  word  I  say.  He 
has  let  you  come,  not  through  pity  for  you,  but  out  of  hate  to 
me,  that  I  may  either  yield,  or  feel  a  keener  pang  in  resisting ; 
but,  as  I  said,  listen  to  me,  and  once  for  all  understand  me." 

Mrs.  Gervoise  checked  her  weeping.  Her  daughter  con- 
tinued : 

"  Darling,  if  I  were  to  do  as  you  wish  me,  and  touched  a 
morsel  of  that  food,  I  should  be  a  slave  for  ever,  and  we  should 
both  be  undone.  It  is  my  liberty  I  am  fighting  for,  and  your 
weal,  my  poor  oppressed  darling.  Next  year  I  am  of  age,  and, 
to  all  seeming,  Mr.  Gervoise's  power  over  me  ends ;  but  if  he 
did  not  know  of  anothefand  keener  hold  upon  me  than  that  of 
the  law,  do  you  think  he  would  venture  so  far  ?  Darling,  he 
would  not.  But  there  it  is.  Whilst  he  has  you,  he  has  me. 
Whilst  he  will  let  me  stay  with  you,  I  will  never  leave  you — 
never ;  for  I  have  vowed  to  protect  and  defend  you,  and  so  help 
me  Heaven  I  will !  Now  the  question  is  this  :  Am  I,  because  I 
stay  with  you,  to  give  myself  up  bound  hand  and  foot  to  his 
good  will  ?  He  is  trying  hard  for  it — very  hard  ;  but  vainly,  let 
us  hope.  If  I  show  him  that  even  now,  when  he  has  some  sort 
of  right  and  power  over  me,  he  cannot  subdue  me,  he  will  not 
attempt  it  again,  when  both  right  and  power  are  over.  It  is  the 
liberty  of  my  whole  life  that  I  am  fighting  for  to-day.  Wonder 
not  if  I  fight  to  the  last,  and  refuse  to  yield." 

"  But,  Beatrice,  he  says  he  will  leave  Carnoosie  when  you 
are  of  age." 

Beatrice  laughed. 

"  He  leave  Carnoosie  and  its  pictures,  and  its  gardens,  and 
its  wines,  and  its  style  and  consequence !  No,  darling,  do  not 
believe  that.  He  will  not.  He  is  not  rich,  and  he  adores  wealth. 
He  has  grown  accustomed  to  its  enjoyments  too,  and  he  cannot 
and  will  not  relinquish  them  for  the  mediocrity  of  his  own  for- 
tunes.    He  will  never  leave  Carnoosie  whilst  you  live — never, 


154  BEATRICE. 

for  he  knows  that  I  will  not  marry  and  forsake  you.  He  knows 
it,  and  trades  on  that  tenderness ;  let  him,  only  let  him  also 
know  that  I  am  and  will  be  free  in  all  else." 

*'  But,  Beatrice,  this  will  kill  you." 

Beatrice  laughed  again. 

"  Why,  I  have  not  fasted  more  than  twenty-four  hours  yet," 
she  said :  "  and  the  poor  and  the  needy  fast  half  their  lifetime. 
Oh !  darling,  this  is  nothing.  Believe  me,  it  is  nothing ;  and 
now  leave  me,  darling,  leave  me  and  go  and  sleep." 

"  Beatrice,  I  cannot.  My  eyes  cannot  close  whilst  I  know 
that  you  have  tasted  nothing  this  day.  Beatrice,  yield  for  this 
once,  for  my  sake." 

Beatrice  sighed  and  kissed  her. 

"  It  is  for  your  sake  that  I  do  not  yield,"  she  said. 

Mrs.  Gervoise  wrung  her  hands  and  wept. 

Beatrice  sighed. 

"  Oh  !  my  darling,"  she  said ;  "  this  is  worse  than  the  fast- 
ing. I  do  and  bear  so  much  that  your  life  may  at  least  be  calm ; 
and  yet  I  cannot  prevent  this  grief.  Darling,  leave  me,  pray 
leave  me,  I  can  bear  no  more.  Try  me  no  further.  Nothing — 
nothing,"  she  added,  her  light  girlish  voice  rising  as  she  spoke, 
"  shall  make  me  touch  the  food  it  pleases  Mr.  Gervoise  to  send 
me  up.  I  am  the  mistress  of  this  house,  and  I  will  eat  at  my 
own  table." 

Mrs.  Gervoise  wrung  her  hands  again. 

"  Come,  I  will  tell  you  something,"  coaxingly  said  Beatrice  ; 
"  if  he  does  not  release  me  by  to-morrow  morning,  I  will  bid 
some  of  the  servants  open  the  door  and  let  me  out,  and  they  will 
do  it.  But  I  had  rather  not — ^I  had  rather  not — I  know  him, 
and  I  know  too  how  he  can  twist  and  turn.  It  is  safer  to  con- 
quer him  silently,  and  not  tread  upon  him  with  too  hard  a  foot ; 
for,  serpent-like,  he  turns  and  stings." 

"Beatrice,  you  frighten  me,"  said  her  mother  shuddering, 
and  speaking  in  a  faint  whisper. 

"  Then  leave  me  and  trust  me,"  whispered  Beatrice  in  her 
turn.  "  Trftst  me,  I  say ;  have  I  not  always  prevailed  all  these 
years  ?  Trust  me,  I  say  ;  he  knew  that  his  real  power  was  soon 
to  escape  him,  and  so  he  made  this  desperate  attempt  to  create 
terror,  and  to  build  a  new  tyranny  on  another  basis  ;  but  he  shall 
be  defeated,  and  so  good  night.  She  kissed  her  mother  again, 
and  gently  pushed  her  away  ;  and  Mrs.  Gervoise  left  the  room, 
and  Beatrice  heard  the  key  turn  in  the  lock. 

She  sank  back  on  her  bed.     She  was  too  faint  and  tired  to 


BEATRICE.  155 

undress.  She  lay  there  looking  at  the  sky  and  at  the  full  moon, 
which  shone  in  upon  her  and  shed  its  two  squares  of  light  on  the 
floor,  as  on  that  evening  of  her  childhood  eleven  years  before, 
when  she  had  promised  her  poor  weak  mother  to  protect  and 
defend  her  against  the  oppressor  ;  "  and  I  have  kept  that  vow," 
thought  Beatrice,  "  through  every  trial,  and  insolence,  and  hard- 
ship. I  have  kept  it,  and  I  will  keep  it  till  I  die,  my  poor 
darling.  Never,  so  help  me  Heaven,  never  shall  you  suffer 
through  fault  of  mine." 

Thought  would  go  no  further ;  Beatrice  was  sinking  into  a 
torpor  of  exhaustion  and  weariness.  Her  eyes  closed,  sleep,  not 
the  light  happy  sleep  and  sound  of  full  health,  overtook  her. 
When  she  awoke  the  next  morning  the  sun  shone  in  her  room, 
and  her  mother  stood  by  her  side  with  a  troubled  and  yet  happy 
face. 

"  What  is  it,  darling?"  asked  Beatrice. 

"  Mr.  Gervoise  is  gone  on  a  journey,"  replied  her  mother. 

"  And  I  am  free,"  said  Beatrice,  smiling ;  "  I  told  you  so." 

She  sat  up,  pale  and  weak,  but  triumphant ;  and  little  know- 
ing how  dear  the  cost  of  victory  had  been. 

"  Breakfast  in  bed,  my  dear,"  said  her  mother. 

"  No,  I  am  not  ill,"  replied  Beatrice  ;  "  besides,  1  told  Mr. 
Gervoise  I  would  not  eat  unless  at  my  own  table,  and  I  will 
not." 

She  rose,  and  attempted  to  dress,  but  her  strength  failed  her. 
She  looked  at  her  mother,  and  tried  to  laugh. 

''I  did  not  know  I  was  so  weak,"  she  said;  "I  suppose  I 
must  take  something  in  my  room  after  all." 

"  I  have  ordered  some  chicken  broth  for  you,  my  dear,"  said 
Mrs.  Gervoise, 

"  As  you  like,  darling." 

Her  voice  was  faint  and  low,  and  she  sank  back  exhausted. 
Even  more  than  the  fasting  did  Beatrice  feel  the  fierce  battle  of 
the  last  thirty-six  hours.  It  had  ended  in  her  victory,  but, 
though  she  made  light  of  them,  her  mental  sufferings  had  been 
acute  and  deep.  They  had  left  a  torpor  behind  them,  on  which 
fever  followed.  Beatrice  could  scarcely  eat  the  whole  of  that 
day,  and  toward  evening  she  was  so  far  unwell  that  Doctor 
Rogerson  had  to  be  called  in. 

The  gay  young  doctor,  who  had  settled  near  Camoosie  with 
a  rosy  bride,  was  now  a  pale,  thin,  nervous  man,  with  bleached 
hair,  and  a  careworn  face.  If  you  had  been  told  that  Doctor 
Rogerson  was   a  clergyman,  whom    distracting    conscientious 


156  BEATKICE. 

scruples  had  compelled  to  forsake  a  living  of  a  thousand  a  year, 
you  would  have  believed  it  easily  ;  you  might  also  have  credited 
the  assurance  that  he  was  an  unfortunate  bankrupt ;  or  again,  if 
you  had  seen  him  in  the  dock  on  an  accusation  of  forgery,  you 
would  not  have  thought  it  strange.  Not  that  Doctor  Rogerson 
looked  a  pious,  unfortunate,  or  dishonest  man ;  but  there  was 
that  in  his  appearance  which  might  suggest  much  that  was 
doubtful.  You  did  not  feel,  on  looking  at  Doctor  Rogerson, 
that  he  had  a  fixed,  straight,  or  happy  position  in  life ;  and 
nothing,  therefore,  could  be  further  from  your  thoughts  than  to 
identity  hina  with  that  cheerful,  busy,  active  person  who  calls 
himself  the  parish  doctor.  This  gentleman  had  seldom  or  never 
attended  Beatrice,  who  enjoyed  perfect  health.  He  was  much 
surprised  at  the  prostrate  state  in  which  he  found  her,  and  ques- 
tioned Mrs.  Gervoise  concerning  what  could  have  caused  it. 
Mrs.  Gervoise  stammered  a  confused  explanation,  and  Doctor 
Rogerson,  though  none  the  wiser,  nodded  sagaciously,  and  pre- 
scribed some  inoffensive  remedies.  Beatrice,  who  lay  on  a  couch 
with  closed  eyes,  listened  to  his  subdued  voice,  as  one  in  a 
dream. 

"  Are  you  sure,"  he  was  saying  to  Mrs.  Gervoise,  "  are  you 
sure,  ma'am,  that  it  is  nothing  mental?  " 

"  Indeed,  Doctor  Rogerson,  I — I  really  can't  say.  I  hope 
not." 

"  Oh  !  I  thought  perhaps  that  this  sad  matter  of  Mr.  Ray — " 

He  ceased  abruptly.  Beatrice  opened  her  eyes.  They  stood 
at  the  furthest  end  of  her  room,  near  a  small  table  on  which 
burned  a  light.  It  shone  on  their  two  faces.  Beatrice  saw  Doc- 
tor Rogerson's  look  of  surprise,  which  seemed  to  say,  "  What ! 
does  she  not  know  ?  "  and  Mrs.  Gervoise's  startled  countenance 
and  upraised  forefinger  enjoining  silence. 

"  What  about  Mr.  Ray  ?  "  cried  Beatrice,  sitting  up.  "  How 
is  he  ?  Is  he  well  ?  What  has  happened  ?  What  about  liiin, 
Doctor  Rogerson  ?  " 

They  did  not  answer. 

"  He  is  ill !  "  said  Beatrice.     "  I  know  he  is  ill !  " 

Doctor  Rogerson  coughed,  and  was  going  to  speak,  but  Bea- 
trice checked  him.  She  knew  all.  His  look  had  told  her  the 
sad  truth.     Mr.  Ray  was  dead  ! 

"  He,  too  !"  she  cried,  clasping  her  hands  in  strange  passion, 
"  he  too  !     First  Mr.  Raby,  then  Mr.  Ray." 

"  My  dear,"  cried  her  mother,  frightened. 

"  Yes,"  said  Beatrice,  standing  up  and  looking  at  them  both. 


BEATEICE. 


157 


"  I  do  not  care  who  hears  me.     These  two  men  have  died,  one 
because  he  could  protect,  and  the  other  because  he  loved  me." 

Doctor  Rogerson  looked  alarmed  and  shocked,  for  Beatrice 
only  said  what  the  whole  of  the  little  world  around  Carnoosie 
was  saying.  These  two  ominous  deaths  were  laid  by  opinion  to 
Mr.  Gervoise's  door,  and  he  had  fled  before  the  verdict  of  that 
mighty  power,  and  was  hiding  no  one  now  knew  where. 

"  Mr.  Ray  di^d  of  complaint  of  the  heart,"  stammered  Dr. 
Rogerson  in  some  confusion. 

"Yes,  but  who  went  and  found  him?  Who  inflicted  the 
shock  that  killed  him  ?  "  passionately  asked  Beatrice. 

Dr.  Rogerson  was  silent,  and  gladly  obeying  the  sign  Mrs. 
Gervoise  made,  he  left  the  room. 

"  How  was  it  ?  How  did  it  happen  ?  "  said  Beatrice.  "  Tell 
me  all — I  must  know  all — I  must ! " 

"  Later,  my  dear,  later." 

And  later,  after  weeks  of  fever,  during  which  she  was  haunt- 
ed by  Mr.  Raby,  as  she  had  seen  him  sitting  dead  with  the  pen 
in  his  hand  and  the  letter  before  him — ^never  to  be  finished  in 
this  world ;  by  Mr.  Ray  as  she  imagined  him  pale  and  calm  in 
his  last  sleep ;  later,  we  say,  Beatrice  learnt  the  little  that  was 
ever  known. 

Mr.  Gervoise  had  called  on  Mr.  Ray.  Their  conversation 
was  loud  and  angry,  for  Mr.  Gervoise  threatened  to  make  Mr. 
Ray  leave  Carnoosie  ;  and  Mr.  Ray,  roused  out  of  his  mildness, 
defied  his  power.  He  looked  very  pale  when  his  visitor  left. 
When  his  sister  entered  his  room  the  next  morning,  he  was  un- 
conscious and  dying.  On  his  piUow  lay  an  open  volume  full  of 
heavenly  lore,  the  wisest,  the  best,  the  most  sublime  that  ever 
spoke  to  man  ;  but  never  again  was  Mr.  Ray  to  peruse  its  pages. 
He  died  without  having  recovered  consciousness,  and  at  once  a 
cry  of"  indignation  was  raised  against  Mr.  Gervoise.  Mr.  Ray's 
death,  sad  in  itself,  was  not  without  some  sad  results.  He  died 
intestate,  and  his  sister,  who  was  but  a  half-sister,  did  not  get  hia 
little  property.  This  went  to  the  heir-at-law,  and  though  it  was 
but  just,  opinion  thought  it  hard,  and  pitied  the  poor  sister. 
With  all  this,  too,  Mr.  Gervoise  was  probably  acquainted,  for  he 
stayed  away  through  the  winter,  which  Beatrice  spent  with  her 
mother  in  peace  indeed,  but  also  in  deep  and  sincere  sorroAv. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

Mrs.  Gervoise  had  fallen  into  a  doze,  and  Beatrice's  book 
had  dropped  upon  her  lap.  She  sat  back  in  her  chair,  looking 
at  the  fire,  building  wonderful  visions  in  those  embers  of  molten 
ore.  The  keen  blast,  laden  with  snow,  which  swept  around  old 
Carnoosie,  did  Beatrice  good.  She  was  sheltered  from  its 
severity,  and  the  knowledge  that  it  was  there,  an  element  of 
strife  and  pain,  braced  her  nerves  for  endurance.  She  rose  soft- 
ly, and  went  to  the  window.  She  drew  back  the  heavy  curtains, 
and  lifted  a  corner  of  the  blind.  The  snow  had  ceased,  and 
though  no  moon  shone,  there  was  light  in  the  starless  sky.  Be- 
fore her  lay  the  white  terrace,  and  beyond  it,  again,  the  frozen 
fountains  and  the  buried  flower-garden.  Beneath  how  deep  a 
pall  lay  the  seeds  of  life  and  beauty  ! 

"  As  they  are,  so  is  my  life,"  thought  Beatrice  ;  "  excitement 
enough  of  one  kind  it  has,  heaven  knows,  but  dangerous  and 
bitter.  I  am  like  a  mariner  ever  sailing  by  a  rocky  shore,  ever 
struggling  against  shoals  and  perilous  waves,  and  never  reaching 
green  land.  No  true,  no  real  happy  life  is  mine.  Verily  I  am 
buried  in  the  snow,  and  it  is  well  for  me  to  lie  and  sleep  there, 
unless  when  I  must  waken  for  the  battle ! " 

There  was  bitterness  and  despair  in  the  thought.  Beatrice  had 
much  of  the  heroic  element  in  her — little  or  none  of  that  which 
makes  the  saintly  martyr.  She  was  well  able  to  strive,  scarce- 
ly to  endure.  Her  nature  was  warm,  genial,  tender,  and  loving, 
though  both  impatient  and  imperious,  and  her  daily  life  exacted 
that  she  should  be  firm  and  gentle,  strong  as  a  rock,  and  as  im- 
passive. She  longed  for  happiness  with  a  most  human  longing, 
and  she  knew  that  woman's  happiness  and  woman's  destiny  were 
closed  upon  her.  No  lover  must  ever  woo  Beatrice,  no  husband 
must  ever  take  her  to  his  heart,  no  children  must  ever  nestle  on 
her  bosom.  Whilst  either  Mr.  Gervoise  or  his  wife  lived, 
Beatrice  must  not  marry ;  for  Beatrice  would  not  forsake  her 
mother,  and  she  would  ask  no  man  to  tolerate  the  yoke  she  her- 


BEATKIOE.  169 

self  could  scarcely  bear.  This  Beatrice  knew,  and  though  she 
often  bade"  happiness  a  stoical  defiance,  often,  too,  she  could  not 
help  pining  for  it  in  her  secret  heart.  Oh !  to  be  free,  and  to 
share  the  common  lot !  To  be  a  girl,  gay,  thoughtless,  and 
merry ;  to  read  novels,  and  dream  that  they  came  true  ;  to  dance 
at  country  balls  with  charming  young  men,  and  think  them  demi- 
gods ;  to  be  twenty  in  thought  and  feeling,  as  she  was  in  years  ! 
Yes,  we  are  sorry  to  say  it,  Beatrice,  who  was  a  good  classical 
scholar,  whom  Mr.  Eay  had  taken  so  far  in  the  fair  world  of 
knowledge,  pined  for  the  comparative  ignorance  and  happiness 
of  other  girls,  for  she  felt  that  they  could  live,  and  she  knew  that 
she  did  not.  And  thus,  in  the  bitterness  of  her  heart,  she  felt 
that  hers  was  but  a  wintry  lot,  many  a  fathom  deep  in  snow,  but 
with  no  wakening,  no  glorious  sun  and  balmy  spring  in  prospect. 

"I  cannot  bear  it,"  rebelliously  thought  Beatrice,  turning 
away  from  the  window,  and  flinging  herself  on  her  chair ;  and 
an  inexorable  voice  replied,  in  accents  stern  and  strong ; 

"  You  must ! — ^you  must ! " 

The  sound  of  carriage  wheels  driving  up  the  avenue  seemed 
the  bitter  echo  of  that  voice.  Mrs.  Gervoise  awoke,  and  gave 
her  daughter  a  scared  look. 

"Who  is  that?"  sharply  asked  Beatrice. 

"  Mr.  Gervoise  wrote  that  he  would  come  this  evening," 
faltered  Mrs.  Gervoise. 

Beatrice  rose,  kissed  her  mother,  and  gently  whispering, 
"  Good  night,  darling  ! "  she  left  the  room. 

She  knew  that  she  must  see  him  again,  but  she  felt  she  could 
not  now  face  the  murderer  of  Mr.  Ray.  Not  in  her  present 
mood  could  she  look  on  the  pitiless  man  who  had  helped  to  cut 
short  that  gentle  and  blameless  life,  whose  cruel  hand  had  de- 
stroyed that  little  nest  of  love,  and  thrown  the  bereaved  sister  once 
more  adrift  on  the  world.  Avoiding  the  main  staircase,  Beatrice 
passed  through  the  dark,  cold  rooms,  where  there  was  no  chance 
of  meeting  him.  She  knew  them  well — the  same  reason  that 
now  made  her  enter  them  had  rendered  her  familiar  with  them 
from  her  childhood  ;  ever  had  she  shunned  the  presence  that  was 
to  her  as  the  fabled  upas  tree — the  poisonous  shadow  thrown  on 
her  young  life,  and  increasing  in  intensity  as  that  life  went  on. 
Eagerly,  and  with  a  sense  of  relief,  Beatrice  passed,  as  we  said, 
through  the  cold  dark  rooms  of  her  own  Carnoosie.  The  servants 
had  forgotten  to  draw  down  the  blinds,  or  to  close  the  shutters, 
and,  as  she  went,  Beatrice  caught  glimpses  of  the  white  world 
without,  of  the  dull  sky,  and  the  dark  masses  of  trees,  and  she 


160  BEATEICE. 

felt  glad  to  know  that  she  was  alone.  At  length  she  reached 
Madam's  closet,  as  it  was  still  called ;  she  opened  a  door,  went 
down  a  steep  and  narrow  staircase,  and  found  herself  in  the 
library. 

She  had  left  it  an  hour  before,  and  the  wood  fire  (coals  were 
never  burned  in  Carnoosie)  was  still  blazing  cheerfully  on  the 
hearth.  Her  chair  was  still  standing  near  the  table,  and  the 
dancing  light  which  shot  from  the  burning  logs  showed  her  the 
still  open  book  she  had  been  reading.  Wax  lights  were  at  hand  ; 
Beatrice  did  not  light  them.  She  did  not  want  to  read,  she 
wanted  to  think,  and  to  feel  bitter  and  sad  as  she  remembered 
Mr.  Ray.  So  she  sat  down,  and,  thinking  of  the  man  up-stairs, 
she  nursed  up  her  resentment  for  the  sake  of  him  who  slept  in 
the  little  churchyard  of  Carnoosie.  But  it  was  decreed  that 
Beatrice's  thoughts  should  ever  revert  to  herself  on  this  evening. 
From  Mr.  Ray  they  went  to  Mr.  Ray's  house,  now  shut  up, 
silent,  and  lone ;  then  by  a  rapid  transition  from  that  deserted 
dwelling  to  a  German  Mdrchen  the  two  had  been  reading,  an  old 
childish  story,  founded  on  the  basis  of  the  eternal  tradition:  a 
princess  fast  asleep  and  wakening  in  a  new  world  when  the 
hundred  years  were  out.  "  Ah !  if  I  could  be  so,"  thought 
Beatrice,  "  if  I  could  fall  asleep  here  in  this  old  library,  with  my 
poor  darling  up-stairs,  and  waken  free  from  the  fetters  which  bind 
me,  with  no  Mr.  Gervoises — nothing  of  the  present  save  its  youth. 
I  dare  say  I  should  find  some  other  master  in  Carnoosie,  some 
venerable  old  gentleman,  with  blooming  daughters  and  stalwart 
sons  and  a  troop  of  grandchildren,  people  of  the  new  world,  who 
would  run  away  from  me  affrighted,  then  dispute  my  claim,  and 
call  Beatrice  Gordon  an  impostor.  Ah  !  I  do  not  know  how  to 
foUow  out  the  fairy  tale — I  am  too  matter-of-fact.  That  is  not 
it.  There  should  be  a  prince  to  waken  the  princess  and  bear 
her  away  from  past  troubles,  enchanted  castle  and  all,  to  the 
new  life. 

"And  far  across  the  hills  they  went, , 
In  that  new  world  which  is  the  old." 

The  door  which  opened  softly,  disturbed  Beatrice's  reverie. 
She  started  up  from  her  chair,  and  asked  in  a  quick,  indignant 
voice  :  "  Who  is  there?" 

"  C'est  moi,"  replied  a  man's  voice  in  French.  Mr.  Gervoise 
often  used  French,  and  Beatrice  hated  the  language  for  his  sake, 
but  it  was  not  Mr.  Gervoise  who  had  spoken.  Standing  near 
the  door,  she  saw  a  man's  form,  but  it  was  taller  and  slighter 
than  her  stepfather's.     Her  heart  beat,  her  brain  felt  wild. 


BEATEICE.  161 

"  Gilbert,  Gilbert ! "  she  cried,  after  vainly  trying  to  see  him, 
"  is  it  you?" 

A  quiet  laugh,  and  the  word  "  Guess,"  were  the  only  answer 
she  got.  Beatrice  quickly  knelt  on  the  hearth,  and,  thrusting 
the  tongs  into  the  fire,  caused  a  bright  sharp  blaze  to  shoot  up — 
it  filled  the  room,  and  showed  her  the  well-remembered  features 
of  Gilbert  Gervoise,  scarcely  altered .  by  years,  though  a  fair 
moustache  now  shaded  his  upper  lip. 

"  You  are  Gilbert ! "  she  cried  triumphantly.  "  I  know 
your  voice — ^you  are  he  ! "  "^ 

She  rose,  got  a  light,  and,  standing  with  her  back  to  it,  she 
looked  at  him  with  eager  joy. 

Gilbert  Gervoise  seemed  touched  at  the  warmth  of  her  wel- 
come. He  drew  near  and  held  out  his  hand  ;  and  when  he  held 
Beatrice's  in  his  clasp,  he  gently  made  her  turn  to  the  light. 
"  It  is  my  turn  to  look  at  you  now,"  he  said,  smiling. 

His  looks  said  that  he  found  a  change  ;  but  Beatrice  scarcely 
heeded  him.  Her  joy,  though  silent,  verged  on  rapture.  Her 
face  burned  with  delight,  her  eyes  shone  like  diamonds,  her 
trembling  lips  smiled.  Gilbert  beheld  her  with  tender  admira- 
tion. He  had  never  forgotten  Beatrice's  little  childish  face ;  it 
had  shone  upon  him  in  the  past,  and  it  was  very  pleasant  and 
very  sweet  to  behold  it  again  in  all  the  girlish  grace  and  bloom 
of  the  present. 

"  Speak — speak  ! "  she  cried  impatiently,  "  I  want  to  hear 
you." 

"  Mrs.  Gervoise  is  waiting  for  us,"  quietly  said  Gilbert ; 
"  she  sent  me  for  you." 

"  Is  not  his  father  up-stairs?"  quickly  thought  Beatrice,  and 
she  as  quickly  asked — 

"  Is  my  mother  alone?" 

"  I  found  and  left  her  so." 

"  Did  you  come  alone,  Gilbert?" 

"  Yes — I  expected  to  find  my  father  here — but  he  cannot 
come  now — ^the  last  train  was  that  by  which  I  travelled." 

Beatrice's  brow  cleared  ;  she  sighed  with  relief,  her  eyes  shone 
again.     One  happy  evening  at  least  was  won  from  time  ! 

"  Come  up — come  up,"  she  said,  in  her  quick  way,  and  she 
preceded  him  up-stairs.  Gilbert  offered  her  his  arm,  but  Beatrice 
would  not  take  it.  She  preferred  running  up  the  broad  staircase 
before  him.  Gilbert  saw  it  with  regret ;  he  would  have  liked  to 
feel  her  leaning  upon  him ;  better  still  would  he  have  liked  to 


162  BEATRICE. 

take  her  in  his  arms  and  kiss  her  rosy  face  ;  "  but  I  suppose  she 
is  too  old  for  that  now,"  he  thought. 

"  Oh !  darling,  it  is  Gilbert,"  cried  Beatrice,  running  into 
her  mother's  room. 

"  Yes,  my  dear  ;  were  you  not  surprised?" 

"Surprised — delighted!"  corrected  Beatrice  ;  "have  you 
forgotten,  darling,  that  Gilbert  and  I  were  great  friends?" 

She  looked  inquiringly  and  almost  jealously  from  her  mother 
to  Gilbert.  They  seemed  strangely  cold  and  calm.  But  though 
Gilbert  smiled  at  her  ardour,  there  was  something  in  his  look 
which  soothed  Beatrice.  She  vaguely  felt  its  meaning ;  it  ex- 
pressed affection  and  admiration,  but  tempered  by  respectful 
reserve. 

"  You  are  hungry — what  will  you  have  to  eat?  You  must 
eat,"  said  Beatrice,  rapidly,  both  stating  the  fact  and  anticipating 
the  refusal. 

"  I  shall  do  all  you  vnsh.  I  believe  that  used  to  be  the  way 
formerly.  Miss  Gordon." 

Beatrice's  bright  face  grew  clouded. 

"  Ah !  you  call  me  Miss  Gordon,"  she  said ;  "  you  do  not 
like  me.     Formerly  you  said  '  thou'  to  me  in  French." 

"  Then  I  was  very  presumptuous,"  replied  Gilbert,  with  a 
grave  smile,  which  told  Beatrice  he  meant  to  sin  thus  no  more. 

"  Ah  !  but  I  shall  not  be  happy  if  you  do  not  call  me  Bea- 
trice ! "  she  almost  entreated. 

Gilbert  bowed,  but  showed  no  wish  to  comply.  Beatrice  felt 
that  he  was  altered,  after  all.  His  manner  was  exquisitely 
refined  and  courteous,  but  it  was  somewhat  cold.  He  had  for- 
gotten English,  and  spoke  it  correctly  but  slowly,  and  with  evi- 
dent difficulty.  A  certain  formality  was  the  result.  Moreover, 
Gilbert,  who  was  barely  twenty-five,  was  thirty  in  manner.  If 
his  features  were  little  altered,  their  meaning  was  not  that  which 
Beatrice  remembered  them  to  have  once  worn.  His  snaggle  had 
lost  some  geniality ;  his  look  was  more  penetrating  than  tender. 
Beatrice  felt  vaguely  that,  though  he  might  yield  to  her,  he  was 
meant  by  Nature  to  be  her  ruler,  not  through  superiority  of 
intellect,  or  even  by  strength  of  will,  but  because  his  patient 
judgment  must  prevail  where  her  more  impulsive  temper  must 
fail. 

Truly  the  Gilbert  who  stood  before  her  was  very  different 
from  the  Gilbert  whom  her  girlish  imagination  had  framed  out 
of  the  recollections  of  childhood.  The  imaginary  man  was  an 
ideal  hero ;   Greek  serenity  sat  on  his  brow ;  suavity  and  un- 


BEATKICE.  163 

blemished  virtue  were  liis  attributes.  The  real  man  looked  calm, 
firm,  and  kind ;  but  life  and  the  world  and  natural  penetration 
had  done  their  work.  Beatrice  felt  confident  that  he  was  honour- 
able and  good,  but  girl  as  she  was,  she  read  the  signs  of  life's 
battle  in  his  face.  Gilbert  had  sufiered  and  striven,  and  been 
tempted ;  and  though  victory  was  written  in  his  whole  aspect, 
the  cost  of  victory  appeared  there  too.  His  had  been  no  joyous, 
happy  youth,  and  hence,  perhaps,  premature  austerity  clouded 
his  early  manhood. 

"  But  I  will  not  be  afraid  of  Gilbert,"  rebelliously  thought 
Beatrice  ;  "he  used  to  do  as  I  wished  when  I  was  a  child,  and 
he  shall  do  what  I  wish  still." 

At  once  she  tried  her  power  by  close  and  direct  questioning. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  all  these  years?" 

"  Working  hard.     I  am  now  Docteur  Gilbert  Gervoise." 

"Where  do  you  practise?" 

"  In  VerviUe." 

"  You  must  not  stay  in  Verville.  You  must  come  to  Car- 
noosie,  and  settle  here.     We  will  buy  out  Dr.  Rogerson." 

She  spoke  with  pretty,  coaxing  despotism ;  and  Gilbert 
smiled,  and  said,  "  To  be  sure." 

"  Which  means,  of  course,  not,"  rejoined  Beatrice,  quickly ; 
"  confess  it  does." 

"  Well,  perhaps  it  does,"  replied  Gilbert,  still  smiling. 

He  was  evidently  amused,  and  evidently,  too,  he  would  not 
treat  her  proposal  seriously.  Beatrice  reddened,  and  looked 
vexed,  but  was  luckily  diverted  from  her  displeasure.  To  gratify 
Miss  Gordon — for  it  was  not  his  wont  to  exert  himself  so  late — 
the  accomplished  M.  Panel  sent  up  a  light  but  perfect  little  sup- 
per, of  which  the  traveller  alone  partook,  and  on  which  tea 
followed. 

"  You  must  eat  here,"  imperatively  said  Beatrice,  "we  wiU 
not  let  you  go  down  to  the  dining-room ;  it  is  cold  and  formal. 
Besides,  I  want  you  up  here." 

Gilbert  yielded,  nothing  loth. 

"  How  pleasant  it  is  to  find  you  so  kind !"  he  said,  frankly. 

"  Did  you  not  expect  it?"  she  asked. 

"  I  could  not  tell — I  did  not  know.  I  expected  to  find  you 
altered,  and  so  you  are.  I  left  a  child — I  find  a  woman ;  but 
the  change  might  have  been  greater  still." 

"How  so?" 

"  You  might  have  been  distant  and  polite." 


i04  BEATEICE. 

Beatrice  smiled  brightly,  and  was  going  to  reply,  when  her 
mother  said : 

"  My  dear,  if  you  go  on  talking  so,  Gilbert  will  not  be  able 
to  eat  a  morsel.     Play  us  something." 

"  I  believe  it  is  the  only  way  to  keep  me  silent,"  honestly 
said  Beatrice. 

So  she  went  to  her  piaio,  opened  it,  and  sat  down  and  played. 
But  if  she  could  not  talk,  she  could  look,  and  the  temptation 
proved  irresistible.  She  sat  with  her  back  to  Gilbert,  but,  whilst 
her  nimble  fingers  ran  over  the  keys,  she  every  now  and  then 
turned  her  head  round  and  showed  him  her  bright  young  face 
beaming  with  the  gladness  which  his  arrival  had  Ht  there. 

A  genial  and  charming  creature  Gilbert  certainly  thought 
her,  and  every  thing  in  his  manner  said  so,  when,  the  meal  and 
the  music  being  both  over,  she  came  back  and  made  the  tea. 

"  How  exquisitely  you  play.  Miss  Gordon,"  he  said,  as,  tea 
being  Qnded,  they  sat  side  by  side  facing  the  fire.    Mrs.  Gervoise's 
couch  stood  a  little  way  from  the  scorching  heat. 
'  "  Beatrice,"  she  said,  holding  up  her  finger,  "  little  Beatrice." 

"  No,"  he  firmly  replied,  "  you  are  not,  you  never  will  be, 
little  Beatrice  again." 

"  I  wish  I  were,"  she  said  a  little  vehemently. 

"  Do  not,"  he  answered  in  a  half-whisper,  for  he  saw  that 
Mrs.  Gervoise  had  fallen  asleep  ;  "do  not." 

He  was  bending  toward  her,  and  Beatrice  could  not  mistake 
either  his  look  or  his  smile.  Both  meant,  "  Do  not,  for  the  girl 
is  ten  times  more  charming  than  ever  was  the  child." 

A  blush  of  gentle  triumph  stole  over  Beatrice's  face,  and 
Gilbert,  looking  at  her,  smiled  again,  and  felt  luxuriously  happy. 

Beatrice  was  exquisitely  pretty ;  the  sound  of  her  music  still 
rang  in  his  ears.  She  was  the  fond  and  true  Beatrice  of  old 
days,  and  another  Beatrice,  too,  warm,  impetuous,  and  yet  grace- 
ful and  refined.  Her  motions  and  attitudes  charmed  his  eye, 
her  face  attracted  it  irresistibly.  To  sit  thus  and  look  at  her  in 
that  large  old  room,  with  its  lofty  ceiling  and  stately  furniture, 
was  as  a  delightful  dream  in  a  life  both  monotonous  and  austere. 
For  once  his  feelings  found  vent  in  words,  and  he  could  not  help 
saying : 

"  This  is  happiness  I  had  not  hoped  for." 

Beatrice  looked  up  quickly. 

"  No,"  continued  Gilbert,  with  evident  emotion,  "I  did  not 
think  I  should  ever  see  you  again,  Beatrice." 

"  Ah !  Beatrice  at  last !"  she  cried  triumphantly. 


BEATRICE.  165 

He  reddened  a  little  and  laughed. 

"And  why  did  you  not  hope  for  it,  Doctor  Gervoise?"  she 
asked;  "am  I  not  the  mistress  of  Carnoosie?  And  were  you 
not  sure  of  your  welcome  ?  " 

Gilbert  forbore  to  answer  this  question,  and  resumed : 

"  The  mistress  of  Carnoosie  !  Yes,  I  remember,  you  were 
very  tenacious  of  that  title." 

"  And  I  am  still.  I  am  not  altered,  Gilbert,  whatever  you 
may  think." 

"  Oh  !  yes,  you  are  altered,"  persisted  Gilbert,  who  seemed 
to  have  acquired  a  talent  for  teasing ;  "  you  will  never  be  little 
Beatrice  again.  I  almost  dreaded  seeing  you,  for  I  felt  I  should 
lose  her  then — and  I  have  lost  her,"  he  added  with  a  provoking 
smile. 

Beatrice  felt  irritated  and  perplexed.  It  was  plain  that, 
whilst  she  rejoiced  in  the  present  Gilbert,  though  he  admired 
that  present,  would  only  like  her  in  the  past. 

"Dear,  good  little  Beatrice,"  he  continued,  "how  often  I 
dreamed  of  her,  and  felt  her  little  arms  clinging  to  me  !  How 
often  I  heard  her  imperious  '  don't  be  long.'  As  years  passed, 
I  dreamed  less  of  course,  but  still,  there  was  a  little  Beatrice  in 
my  thoughts,  a  little  brown  and  wilful  mistress  of  Carnoosie, 
who  was  very  prompt  with  '  you  shall,'  and  '  I  will,'  and  who 
loved  me  very  dearly." 

Beatrice  looked  at  the  fire  and  smiled,  but  her  heart  ached. 
She  was  quick  and  sensitive,  and  understood  Gilbert  very  well. 
She  was  a  delightful  remembrance  of  his  boyhood,  but  she  was 
no  more — and  she  must  be  nothing  in  his  present  life,  that  had 
hopes  and  fears  and  aims  and  desires,  with  which  Beatrice  Gor- 
don and  Carnoosie  had  nought  to  do.  As  she  came  to  this  sad 
conclusion,  Gilbert  perplexed  her  again  by  saying : 

"  Now,  I  have  a  strong  fancy  that  you  never  dreamed  of  me, 
Miss  Gordon,  and  that  poor  Gilbert  was  quickly  forgotten.  Do 
not  tell  me  so,  however.  I  would  rather  know  nothing  on  that 
head.  Perhaps  you  do  not  know,"  he  added  in  a  graver  tone, 
"  that,  after  our  parting,  I  was  ill  three  weeks  in  Verville." 

"  Bl !  you  were  iU  !  "  cried  Beatrice. 

"  Very  ill  indeed,  for  fever  set  in.  And  you !  "  he  added, 
looking  at  her  keenly. 

Beatrice  blushed  and  looked  contrite. 

"  I  could  not  eat  the  day  you  left,"  she  began. 

"  But  your  appetite  returned  the  next  morning.  Just  what 
I  should  expect  from  little  Beatrice." 


166  BEATKIOE. 

Tears  of  vexation  rose  to  Beatrice's  eyes. 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,  Gilbert/'  she  said,  a  little  vehe- 
mently ;  "  I  am  so  happy  to  see  you  again,  and  you  seem  to 
think  only  of  what  I  was  years  ago." 

"  Have  I  displeased  you  ?  "  asked  Gilbert,  gently  and  gravely. 

"  You  have,"  was  her  indignant  reply. 

"  Well,  then,  forgive  me.     I  regret  it." 

There  was  a  persuasive  tenderness  in  his  voice  which  went 
to  Beatrice's  heart.  She  did  not  say  she  forgave  him,  but  the 
cloud  passed  at  once  from  her  face.  Gilbert  looked  at  her  with 
a  thoughtful  smile.  If  he  perplexed  her,  she  perplexed  him  too. 
He  was  pleased  and  happy  to  see  Beatrice  again,  but  the  pas- 
sionate friendship  of  his  boyhood  was  dead,  and  he  could  not 
believe  that  it  was  still  a  reality  for  the  handsome  young  mis- 
tress of  Carnoosie.  He  forgot,  or  he  did  not  know,  that  she  had 
led  a  sad,  secluded  life,  a  life  made  to  cherish  old  memories  with 
ardent  regret  and  obstinate  tenacity.  His  grief  had  been  the 
deeper,  but  hers  had  been  the  more  enduring  feeling  of  the  two. 
This  Gilbert  could  not  see.  It  was  not  possible,  in  his  creed, 
that  Beatrice  should  have  loved  him  all  these  years.  The  warmth 
of  her  welcome,  the  vehement  directness  of  her  reproaches,  were 
only  the  signs  of  an  impulsive,  girlish  nature.  But  yet  there  was 
sweetness  and  pleasure  in  the  curiosity  this  strange  girl  made 
him  feel.  Beatrice  was  unlike  any  other  young  lady,  French  or 
English.  The  tyrant  propriety,  reserve,  shyness,  seemed  un- 
known to  her.  She  was  ever  taking  him  by  surprise,  throwing 
him  off  his  guard,  and  making  him  say  things  he  was  aston- 
ished the  next  moment  at  having  said.  He  felt  that  sitting 
thus  by  her  side,  and  exchanging  the  quick  shafts  of  speech  with 
her,  he  was  no  longer  the  Gilbert  Gervoise,  reserved  and  calm, 
known  in  Paris  and  in  Yerville.  He  felt  bewitched — another 
man  moving  in  another  world. 

"  We  must  be  friends,"  said  Beatrice,  after  a  long  pause. 
"I  shall  not  scold  you  any  more,  Gilbert,  but  we  must  be 
friends." 

"  Granted,"  he  replied,  with  mock  gravity. 

But  Beatrice  would  see  and  resent  nothing. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  since  we  parted?  "  ' "  ' 

"  Studying  medicine  in  Paris." 

"  Why  medicine  ?  " 

"Because  I  am  not  rich  enough  to  do  my  own  pleasure. 
The  law  I  hate,  for  art  I  have  no  genius — science,  which  I  like, 
is  not  a  livelihood.  I  took  medicine  as  nearest  to  the  pursuits 
I  would  have  chosen  had  I  been  free." 


BEATKICE.  167 

"  I  am  sure  you  would  be  great  in  science,"  cried  Beatrice  ; 
"  it  is  a  shame  to  leave  it  by.  .  Come  and  live  with  us,  Gilbert ; 
there  is  a  laboratory  in  Carnoosie,  as  you  know.  Mr.  Ray  said 
it  was  a  fine  one — it  shall  be  yours.     Come — you  must !  " 

"  What  a  child  she  is  !  "  thought  Gilbert,  looking  down  at 
her  eager  face,  and  reading  her  ardent  eyes  with  a  calm,  search- 
ing glance.  "  There  is  a  proposal  for  you  from  a  girl  of  tweMy 
to  a  man  twenty-five  !  I  suppose  she  has  no  conception  tnat  the 
society  of  rich  and  handsome  girls  is  rather  a  dangerous  luxury 
to  a  poor  fellow.  I  am  not  sure  that  she  would  care,  either.  I 
rather  think  Miss  Beatrice  Gordon  was  made  to  have  slaves," 

"Well,  is  it  to  be?"  impatiently  asked  Beatrice. 

"  No,  I  am  Docteur  Gervoise,  and  Docteur  Gervoise  I  must 
remain.  It  would  never  do  to  bury  myself  in  the  delights  of 
your  castle  of  indolence.  Work,  and  hard  work  too,  awaits 
me." 

"  I  know  what  it  is  !  "  indignantly  said  Beatrice,  rising  as 
she  spoke  ;   "  you  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  me — that  is  it !  " 

Yes,  it  was  it,  and  Gilbert  coloured  at  her  plain  speaking, 
but  he  had  no  time  to  reply.  Mrs.  Gervoise  awoke  with  a  start, 
and  sitting  up,  asked  hurriedly  what  was  the  matter  ? 

Beatrice  tried  to  laugh. 

"  I  am  already  scolding  Gilbert,"  she  said.  "  Luckily  he  is, 
as  he  always  was,  patient  and  calm." 

Mrs.  Gervoise  gave  them  a  bewildered  glance.  Beatrice 
was  red  as  a  rose,  and  Gilbert  looked  by  no  means  calm.  He 
seemed  surprised,  too,  and  was  looking  at  Beatrice  as  if  he 
meant  to  read  her  through.  The  honest  and  the  penetrating, 
who  have  not  learned  to  veil  those  looks,  are  not  sufficiently  on 
their  guard  against  them.  They  do  not  know  what  a  tale  they 
tell,  and  how  much  they  betray  that  is  often  unknown  to  the 
owner. 

"  My  goodness  !  I  hope  he  is  not  going  to  fall  in  love  with 
Beatrice  !  "  thought  Mrs.  Gervoise,  frightened  at  the  mere  pros- 
pect— for  what  would  not  be  Mr.  Gervoise's  anger  if  his  favour- 
ite younger  son  were  supplanted  by  the  unloved  elder  one  ! 

"  My  dear,"  she  said,  hurriedly,  and  as  if  she  thus  hoped  to 
forestall  the  calamity  she  feared,  "  Gilbert  must  be  tired  after 
his  journey,  and  you  are  keeping  him  up." 

"  I  am  not  fatigued,"  said  Gilbert,  who  had  a  frame  of  iron  ; 
"  but  you  are  in  need  of  rest,  and  I  shall  bid  you  good  night." 

"Are  you  afraid  of  ghosts?"  asked  Beatrice,  a  little  ab- 
ruptly. 


168  BEATEIOE. 

"  I  have  never  had  the  opportunity  of  testing  my  fortitude  in 
that  respect,"  gravely  replied  Gilbert. 

"  Then  I  shall  give  you  that  opportunity  to-night,"  saucily 
said  Beatrice.  "  I  have  ordered  the  haunted  room  to  be  got 
ready  for  you." 

^"  And  what  is  the  ghost  like?  "  asked  Gilbert,  without  seem- 
ing to  look  at  her,  though  Mrs.  Gervoise  could  see  he  was 
watching  her  keenly. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  portrait  of  the  Italian  lady  in  Mad- 
am's closet  ?  "  asked  Beatrice. 

"  Quite  well,"  and  he  remembered  not  merely  that  portrait, 
but  the  day  on  which  they  had  looked  at  it,  and  how  they  were 
lost  in  the  forest,  where  Beatrice  nestled  in  his  arms  ;  that  little 
Beatrice  so  like  and  unlike  the  proud  young  beauty  before  him. 

"  Well,  she  is  the  ghost." 

"  And  as  like  you  in  death,  I  hope,  as  you  are  like  her  in 
life,"  said  Gilbert,  looking  full  at  Beatrice. 

"  Mr.  Gervoise  will  kill  me,"  thought  Mrs.  Gervoise,  dis- 
tracted. 

"  If  tradition  speaks  truly,"  demurely  replied  Beatrice,  "  she 
comes  in  the  shape  of  a  large  black  raven,  and  will  croak  and 
flap  her  wings  at  your  window." 

"  Let  her,"  said  Gilbert  laughing.  "  I  will  open  my  window 
to  no  such  ugly  spirits." 

"My  dear,"  reproachfully  said  Mrs.^  Gervoise,  "you  keep 
Gilbert  standing." 

Gilbert  took  the  hint,  and  bidding  the  ladies  a  good  night, 
left  them. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

Beatrice  remained  standing  on  the  hearth.  She  looked 
excited  and  happy.  Never  had  her  mother  seen  her  so.  "  After 
all,"  thought  Mrs.  Gervoise,  "  how  could  Gilbert  help  admiring 
her  ?  Beatrice  is  no  perfect  beauty,  to  be  sure  ;  but  she  is  so 
bright,  so  pretty,  and  unlike  most  girls.  I  could  see  he  was 
surprised  as  much  as  charmed ;  but,  my  goodness,  she  must  not 
get  fond  of  him ! "  And  knowing  that  contempt  is  the  sure 
destroyer  of  love,  Mrs.  Gervoise  artfully  began  her  attack. 

"  How  countrified  poor  Gilbert  is,"  she  said. 

"  Do  you  think  so,  darling.  I  thought  he  had  such  fine 
manners." 

"  Well,  but  he  looks  countrified,  my  dear." 

Beatrice  seemed  puzzled. 

"  He  is  very  handsome  ;  "  she  said,  "  much  handsomer  than 
his  brother.     Antony  is  too  pretty.     Gilbert  is  manly." 

"  My  dear,  do  not  let  your  father  hear  you  say  so,"  faltered 
Mrs.  Gervoise. 

"  Oh !  no,  of  course  not.  Do  you  know  what  has  brought 
Gilbert,  darling?" 

"  He  told  me  he  had  an  appointment  with  his  father." 

"  It  was  not  to  see  me  he  came,"  thought  Beatrice,  "  and  I 
would  gladly  have  travelled  a  hundred  miles  to  look  at  his  face." 

She  was  silent,  and  Mr.  Gervoise  wondered  what  she  should 
say  next.  Beatrice,  tired  with  standing,  had  thrown  herself  in 
the  arm-chair  Gilbert  had  just  left ;  her  dark  head  rested  against 
the  crimson  velvet ;  her  flushed  face  looked  languid  ;  her  whole 
aspect  was  unusually  troubled,  for  there  was  ever  serenity  in 
Beatrice's  ardour. 

"  She  is  in  love  with  him,"  thought  Mrs.  Gervoise,  sitting 
up  with  a  start  that  roused  Beatrice  at  once. 

"What  ails  you,  darling?"  she  asked. 

"  Let  us  go  to  bed,  my  dear." 

They  parted,  and  Beatrice  went  to  her  own  room.  She 
8 


170  BEATEIOE. 

thought  of  Gilbert,  but  more  calmly  than  her  mother  fancied,  and 
more  searchingly,  too.  She  wondered  what  the  real  man  was 
like,  and  if  there  were  so  great  a  difference  between  the  old  and 
the  new  Gilbert  as  there  seemed  to  be.  She  could  not  bear  to 
think  that  there  was — that  the  Gilbert  who  now  slept  under  her 
roof  gave  her  the  cold  regard  of  a  stranger,  instead  of  the  fond 
affection  of  a  friend. 

"  He  must  like  me  as  he  used  to  like  me,"  indignantly  thought 
Beatrice,  as  her  head  sank  on  her  pillow.  Then  she  went  back 
to  their  meeting  in  the  library  a  few  hours  ago,  and  as  her  h'ds 
closed  and  the  heaviness  of  sleep  fell  upon  her,  the  verse  of  the 
poet — 

"  And  far  across  the  hills  they  went,'* 

again  came  to  her,  and  she  dreamed  that  she  was  with  Gilbert  in 
Verville. 

It  snowed  fast  when  Beatrice  awoke  the  next  morning. 
"Perhaps  the  trains  cannot  run,  and  Mr.  Gervoise  will  not 
come,"  she  charitably  thought ;  "  at  all  events  I  must  make  the 
most  and  the  best  of  the  morning."  She  hastened  to  dress  and 
go  down-stairs.  She  knew  that  her  mother,  who  was  a  late 
riser,  was  not  up  yet,  and  she  had  heard  Gilbert's  voice.  "  He 
is  in  the  library,"  thought  Beatrice  with  rapid  intuition,  and  to 
the  library  she  went. 

Gilbert  was  not  in  the  library,  but  in  the  room  next  it,  the 
laboratory  of  which  Beatrice  had  spoken,  and  which  was  indeed 
a  fine  one.  He  was  examining  it  with  a  keen  and  curious  eye, 
when  a  rustling  of  silk  behind  made  him  turn  round.  He  saw 
Beatrice  standing  on  the  threshold  of  the  room,  the  half-open 
door  in  her  hand,  looking  at  him  gravely.  "  What  a  handsome 
creature  she  is  !  "  thought  Gilbert,  struck  with  the  fine  classical 
lines  of  Beatrice's  young  face ;  "  and  how  charmingly  she 
dresses ! " 

We  will  not  analyse  Beatrice's  toilette,  lest  critical  readers 
should  find  fault  with  it,  and  with  Docteur  Gervoise's  taste. 
We  will  only  say  this,  it  was  a  morning  robe  richly  trimmed, 
bright  in  colour,  and  simple  in  shape,  and  it  suited  Beatrice  to 
perfection.  She  looked  as  brilliant  as  any  exotic  bird,  and,  spite 
the  snowy  morning,  Gilbert  felt  in  the  tropics  as  he  looked  at 
her. 

"  Good  morning,"  said  Beatrice  seriously. 

"  Good  morning,"  he  replied,  as  gravely. 

*'  How  did  you  sleep  ?  " 


BEATEICE.  171 

"  Admirably  !  "  ' 

" Did  the  ghost  come?" 

"  I  saw  no  ghost." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it." 

Docteur  Gervoise  smiled,  silently. 

"  Are  you  going  to  stay  here?  "  asked  Beatrice. 

"  I  meant  to  do  so." 

"  No,  you  must  not — come  !  "  And  still  standing  on  the 
threshold,  she  beckoned  to  him. 

"But  where  shall  I  go?" 

"  Never  mind — come,  I  say." 

"Why  so?" 

"  Because  I  want  you,  to  be  sure." 

She  seemed  amazed  at  his  resistance. 

"  Come,"  she  said  again,  and  Gilbert  went  of  course.  It 
was  very  like  the  Beatrice  of  old  days  to  order  him  about  so,  and 
it  was  very  like  being  a  boy  again  to  find  himself  doing  Beatrice's 
bidding. 

Beatrice  took  him  up-stairs  to  her  mother's  sitting-room. 
There  were  too  many  spies  in  Carnoosie  for  her  to  stay  below 
with  Gilbert.  Mrs.  Gervoise  was  not  up  yet,  and  the  room  was 
just  as  Beatrice  wanted  it — solitary ;  but  no  one  save  Mrs.  Ger- 
voise herself,  who  slept  in  the  next  apartment,  would  know  that 
she  was  there  alone  with  Gilbert.  And,  little  suspecting  that 
Mrs.  Gervoise  saw  this  privacy  with  disapprobation,  Beatrice 
congratulated  herself  on  this  admirable  plan.  She  lost  no  time 
in  letting  Gilbert  know  what  she  had  brought  him  up  for. 

"  Sit  down,"  she  said,  pointing  to  a  chair,  and  taking  another 
herself. 

"  I  am  going  to  hear  Her  Majesty's  pleasure,"  thought  Gil- 
bert, but  he  did  not  expect  what  was  coming. 

"  Now,  Gilbert,"  said  Beatrice,  "  I  questioned  you  last  night, 
and  you  gave  me  very  brief  and  unsatisfactory  replies.  I  am 
not  going  to  let  you  off  so.  Please  to  be  more  explicit  this 
morning.     "What  have  you  been  doing  since  we  parted  ?  " 

Men  and  women  lead  such  different  lives,  that  the  most 
blameless  of  either  sex  would  scarcely  care  to  answer  such  a 
question  when  put  by  a  member  of  the  other.  "  There  is  cool- 
ness for  you ! "  thought  Gilbert,  completely  taken  by  surprise  ; 
"  a  most  audacious  young  lady,  I  must  say ! " 

"  Well,  you  don't  answer !  "  cried'  Beatrice,  putting  on  a 
frown  ;  "  I  ask  you  again  what  you  have  been  doing?" 

"  And  I  retort  the  question." 


172 


BEATRICE. 


"  Oh !  I  am  a  bird  in  a  cage,"  replied  Beatrice,  with  some 
bitterness  ;  "  you  would  not  have  me  keep  count  of  my  seed  and 
groundsel." 

"  Of  course  not,  but  wild  birds  take  such  wide  flights  that 
they  are  apt  to  forget  how  far  they  have  been,  you  see." 
^^Beatrice's  face  fell. 

"I  see,"  she  said,  "that  you  will  tell  me  i^iothing,  Gil- 
bert ;  and  yet,"  she  added,  with  a  sigh,  "  I  should  have  liked  to 
know  what  sort  of  feelings  and  hopes  and  desires  there  have  been 
in  your  life — ^but  you  will  not  give  me  your  confidence." 

Gilbert  could  not  say  that  he  would.  What  was  there  in 
common  between  them  ?  How  could  he  tell  Beatrice,  for  in- 
stance, that  the  great  object  of  his  medical  studies  had  been  to 
detect  the  presence  of  infusoria  in  the  human  frame?  How 
could  he  speak  of  the  humiliation  of  the  flesh  to  a  girl  of  twenty, 
fresh  as  a  flower,  and  looking  as  if  the  taint  of  disease  or  the 
breath  of  decay  could  never  come  near  her  ? 

"  Had  you  friends  ?  "  persisted  Beatrice. 

"  I  had  one." 

"Is  he  dead?" 

"  No." 

"  Well,  then,  why  do  you  say  '  I  had?'  " 

"  Because  he  is  not  my  friend  now." 

"How  was  it? — ^how  did  it  happen?"  she  asked,  drawing 
her  chair  nearer  to  his,  to  hear  the  story. 

But  this  story  Gilbert  did  not  care  to  tell  Beatrice  either,  so 
he  replied,  carelessly : 

"  Oh  !  it  was  a  foolish  quarrel  enough." 

"  You  are  very  tiresome  ! "  indignantly  said  Beatrice  ;  "  you 
will  tell  me  nothing,  and  I  do  so  long  to  know  what  there  has 
been  in  your  life?  Were  there  no  Beatrices?"  she  jealously 
asked.  « 

This  time  Gilbert  could  answer  truly  and  frankly. 

"No,  indeed — ^no  Beatrices.  Beatrices  are  unique,  and 
travellers  have  never  found  but  one  at  a  time." 

He  spoke  so  kindly,  that  Beatrice's  heart  softened  at  once. 
She  had  found  the  key  at  last,  and  now  she  was  going  to  open 
the  door  and  enter.  But  as  she  came  to  this  pleasant  conclusion, 
a  door  which  was  not  that  of  Gilbert's  heart  opened,  and  Miss 
Jameson  entered  the  room.  She  looked  half  frightened  at 
Beatrice's  indignant  glance,  which  greatly  amused  Gilbert,  and 
hastily  said : 

"  Mrs.  Gervoise  has  sent  for  me,  my  dear,  and  asked  me  to 
wait  for  her  here." 


BEATEICE.  173 

This  was  true  enough.  Mrs.  Gervoise  had  hit  on  this  expe- 
dient for  preventing  the  tete-a-tete  which  her  presence  was  not 
there  to  guard. 

Having  said  her  say,  Miss  Jameson  sat  down  and  took  out 
her  knitting.  Gilbert  watched  Beatrice.  She  tapped  her  foot, 
and  looked  at  the  ceiling,  and  seemed  charmed  into  sudden  silence. 

"She  is  meditating  something,  plotting  against  her  poor 
mouse  of  a  governess,"  thought  Gilbert,  much  entertained ;  "  I 
wonder  what  it  will  be  ?  " 

Gilbert,  who  already  felt  that  Beatrice  was  capable  of  many 
strange  things,  was  by  no  means  prepared  for  what  followed. 

"  Miss  Jameson  !  "  she  cried,  starting  to  her  feet. 

Miss  Jameson's  knitting  dropped  on  her  lap,  and  she  gave 
Beatrice  a  scared  look. 

"  Do  be  so  kind  as  to  sit  down  to  the  piano  and  play,"  eagerly 
continued  Beatrice  ;  "  Gilbert  and  I  are  going  to  dance." 

"  What !  "  cried  Gilbert. 

"  You  do  not  mean  to  say  that  you,  a  Frenchman,  cannot 
dance  ?  "  indignantly  exclaimed  Beatrice. 

"  Well,  but  suppose  I  do  not  know?" 

"  Then  I  shall  teach  you.  Now,  Gilbert,  you  must,  out  of 
charity.  I  know  how  to  dance,  and  never  have  been  to  a  ball  in 
my  life.  Come,  be  quick  !  We  cannot  have  a  quadrille,  but  we 
can  waltz.  One  of  your  best  waltzes.  Miss  Jameson,  please — 
the  Duke  of  Reichstadt's,  you  know." 

Beatrice  spoke  saucily  and  cruelly,  though  she  knew  it  not ; 
Miss  Jameson,  who  was  no  accomplished  musician,  knew  but 
that  one  waltz.  Poor  thing !  how  often,  borne  away  by  the 
handsome  man  of  thirty-five,  had  she  felt  in  heaven  as  this  waltz 
was  played  by  her  sister  on  the  old  cracked  piano  in  her  father's 
parlour !  But  what  recks  youth  present  of  youth  passed  ?  So 
whilst  Miss  Jameson  obediently  sat  to  the  piano,  and  sighed  her 
et  ego  in  Arcadia^  as  her  fingers  ran  over  the  keys,  Beatrice 
called  Gilbert  with  a  "  Gilbert,  quick,  quick  !  " 

"  Well, but  if  I  commit  mistakes?"  he  objected,  with  feigned 
reluctance. 

"  I  shall  set  you  right.     Oh  !  do  not  loiter  !  " 

Far  more  leisurely  than  Beatrice  liked,  Gilbert  obeyed.  As 
methodically  as  if  they  were  both  in  a  ball-room,  he  approached 
the  impatient  girl,  and  with  a  "  now  mind  you  tell  me,"  he  took 
hold  of  her  and  began. 

"Keep  time,"  she  said;  "not  so;  why,  Gilbert,  can't  you 
count  one,  two,  three  ?  yes,  that  is  better.     Oh  !  what  a  cheat  you 


/ 


174  BEATRICE. 

are ! "  she  cried,  as,  suddenly  dropping  his  pretended  awkward- 
ness, Gilbert  began  waltzing  with  her  in  perfect  time  around  the 
room.     ."  Why,  you  waltz  beautifully ! " 

"  Yes,"  said  Gilbert,  gravely ;  "  I  passed  for  that  too." 

"Oh!  this  is  delightful!"  exclaimed  Beatrice,  wild  with 
pleasure  ;  "  faster.  Miss  Jameson — faster  !  " 

And  Miss  Jameson  played  faster,  and  still  they  moved  in  the 
magic  dance,  and  both  felt  as  if  it  ought  to  have  no  ending. 
Beatrice  had  never  felt  a  pleasure  so  perfect.  She  had  learned 
dancing,  and  never  practised  it ;  she  had  dreamed  of  it  at  night, 
and  pined  for  it  on  wakening  in  the  morning,  and  now  she  had 
that  joy  at  last.  Gilbert  was  her  partner,  and  the  blazing  fire 
on  the  hearth,  and  the  falling  snow  that  passed  by  the  windows, 
gave  her  joy  a  zest  more  keen.  But  even  as  she  thought,  "  Oh  ! 
there  is  nothing  like  this,"  Gilbert  suddenly  stopped,  and  they 
both  stood  still  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 

"  Well,  what  is  it?"  cried  Beatrice. 

"  You  must  not  waltz.  Miss  Gordon,"  he  said,  gravely ;  "  it 
excites  you  too  much." 

And  so  saying,  he  sat  down,  folded  his  hands,  and,  what  was 
worse  in  Beatrice's  eyes,  he  stretched  and  crossed  his  legs,  evi- 
dently resolved  not  to  use  them  any  more  for  Beatrice's  pleasure. 

"  But  I  feel  quite  well,  I  assure  you,"  she  said,  earnestly. 
"  Do  come,  Gilbert !  " 

"  Not  on  any  account,"  he  replied,  with  the  most  resolute 
courtesy.     "  I  can  see  you  are  quite  feverish." 

"  Feverish ! — I  am  not  feverish.  I  assure  you  I  am  not," 
and  she  held  out  her  slender  wrist. 

Gilbert  smiled,  but  did  not  unfold  his  hands  to  feel  Beatrice's 
pulse.  r 

"  The  feverishness  I  mean  is  of  a  subtler  kind,"  he  replied. 
"  Your  face  is  my  criterion — see  how  flushed  you  are  ! " 

Beatrice  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass.  Her  colour  was  a 
little  heightened  by  the  waltzing,  but  that  was  all.  She  turned 
back  to  Gilbert,  and  gave  him  a  puzzled  look.  The  greatest 
suavity  and  courtesy  marked  his  manner,  which,  though  often 
cold,  was  never  severe  ;  but,  for  all  that,  Beatrice  felt  there  was 
something  in  Gilbert  which  said  "  No  "  to  her,  as  plainly  as  if 
that  inexorable  little  word  had  been  spoken  by  Gilbert's  lips. 

And  Beatrice  was  not  deceived.  Gilbert  was  saying  "  no  " 
to  her  with  all  his  might.  He  was  saying  "  no  "  to  her  youth 
and  beauty,  to  her  dangerous  familiarity,  and  still  more  danger- 
ous friendship.     No  door  was  ever  so  firmly  locked  against  an 


BEATEICE.  175 

intruder  than  Gilbert's  heart  was  now  barred  against  the  hand- 
some mistress  of  Carnoosie.  Early  in  life  had  Gilbert  learned 
that  bitter  lesson.  He  could  deny  himself  dangerous  pleasures, 
as  well  as  guilty  passions.  The  first  warmth  of  their  meeting 
over,  he  had  felt  that  there  was  danger  in  Beatrice.  As  she 
stood  before  him,  graceful,  richly  attired,  pretty,  and,  above  all, 
familiar  and  fond,  though  disappointed,  Gilbert  looked  at  her 
firmly,  and  thought :  "  That  girl  is  a  diamond,  a  costly  gem,  un- 
fit for  a  poor  man.  Why,  I  could  live  for  n  month  on  the  price 
of  her  morning  dress  !  Just  fancy  that  dainty  Bird  of  Paradise 
in  the  cage  I  have  in  Verville  ;  or  just  fancy  me,  the  country 
doctor,  living  in  Carnoosie  on  a  woman's  bounty  !  " 

His  colour  rose,  his  lip  curled  at  the  thought. 

"  Why,  it  is  you  who  look  feverish  !  "  said  Beatrice,  watch- 
ing him  closely. 

Gilbert  reddened  still  more,  for  he  was  young  and  impressi- 
ble, though  self-denying ;  he  was  modest,  too,  with  all  his  pride, 
and  had  not  lost  the  faculty  of  blushing. 

"  I  am  too  delicate  for  waltzing,"  he  said,  trying  to  speak 
gaily.  "  You  don't  know  what  weak  nerves  we  have,  nous  autres 
medecins  I  " 

"  There  does  not  seem  to  be  any  thing  like  weakness  about 
you,  Gilbert,"  observed  Beatrice,  sitting  down  at  some  distance 
from  him,  and  looking  at  the  fire  as  she  spoke.  "  You  are  steel 
— clear,  cool,  and  unbending.'^ 

"  But  steel  does  bend,"  argued  Gilbert. 

"  Yes,  enough  to  make  one  feel  its  strength." 

And  still  she  looked  at  the  fire. 

"  Now,  I  know  there  are  tears  in  those  bright  eyes  of  hers  ! " 
thought  Gilbert,  for  else  Beatrice  would  look  me  in  the  face. 
My  poor  little  Beatrice,  I  have  hurt  you  !  Oh !  why  are  you 
not  my  little  Beatrice  still  ?  How  soon  a  kiss  would  restore 
peace  between  us,  or  rather  how  I  would  have  waltzed  with  you 
to  your  heart's  content !  It  is  a  pity,  and  a  mortal  pity  too,  that 
you  are  grown  up,  and  such  a  pretty  girl !  " 

"  You  may  shut  up  the  piano.  Miss  Jameson,"  said  Beatrice, 
in  rather  a  subdued  voice.     "  Many  thanks  for  your  trouble." 

Mrs.  Gervoise,  whom  the  sounds  of  the  music  and  the  waltz- 
ing had  both  startled  and  alarmed,  now  entered  the  room,  and 
found  matters  exactly  as  she  wished  them  to  be.  Gilbert  and 
Beatrice  sat  rather  apart,  in  evident  coolness. 


CHAPTER  XXn. 

And  thus  several  days  had  passed,  and  still  detained  by  the 
weather  and  business,  Mr.  Gervoise  did  not  come.  Mrs.  Ger- 
voise's  uneasiness  had  calmed  down.  Gilbert's  manner  was 
meant  to  dispel  her  alarm.  It  was  plain  to  her  that  he  greatly 
admired  Beatrice,  but  it  was  very  plain,  too,  that  he  had  no  wish 
to  indulge  himself  in  that  admiration.  He  was  free  and  familiar 
with  her,  but  only  after  a  certain  fashion.  His  self-possession 
never  forsook  him.  His  look,  his  smile,  his  words,  all  spoke  of 
inexorable  control  over  his  feelings  and  his  heart.  His  famili- 
arity was  that  of  old  acquaintance ;  it  had  little  friendliness  in 
it ;  Beatrice's  was  ever  ready  to  break  out  into  sisterly  fondness, 
Gilbert's  never.  A  subtle  reserve  tempered  his  whole  manner  ; 
it  was  impossible  to  tax  him  with  coldness,  but  it  would  have 
been  very  hard  indeed  to  have  discovered  tenderness  in  his  bear- 
ing toward  Beatrice.  This  something,  which  Mrs.  Gervoise 
saw  with  a  mother's  shrewdness,  Beatrice  felt  keenly.  Gilbert's 
presence  in  Carnoosie  was  both  a  happiness  and  a  torment  to 
her.  She  had  welcomed  him  with  all  the  ardour  of  her  old 
friendship,  and  almost  immediately  she  had  felt  that  she  was  not 
to  him  what  he  was  to  her.  In  vain  she  had  tried  to  win  back 
this  lost  treasure  of  her  childhood,  every  day  only  seemed  to 
place  Gilbert  at  a  further  distance  from  her.  He  was  courteous, 
pleasant,  and  even  familiar ;  but,  alas !  he  was  no  longer  her 
friend,  and,  alas  !  again,  he  did  not  wish  to  be  so.  It  was  very 
hard  and  mortifying,  but  it  was  a  fact,  that  Gilbert  did  not  wish 
for  her  friendship.  If  Beatrice  had  been  more  vain  than  she 
was,  and  if  she  had  had  some  experience  of  life,  she  might  have 
guessed  that  Gilbert  was  prudent,  and  not  cold.  But  of  herself, 
and  how  she  might  act  on  a  young  man's  heart,  Beatrice  knew 
little.  Flattering  voices  had  not  early  taught  her  that  her  share 
of  woman's  charms  was  abundant ;  she  knew  that  she  was  good- 
looking,  beyond  this  vague  knoAvledge  she  did  not  go.  More- 
over, she  did  not  look  on  Gilbert  as  a  stranger,  and  how  could 


BEATRICE.  ITT 

he  think  of  her  otherwise  than  as  of  little  Beatrice  ?  No,  that 
was  not  it ;  it  was,  sad  and  bitter  reflection,  that  Gilbert  no 
longer  loved  her  !  Then  Beatrice  wondered  if  she  could  not  win 
back  some  fragment  of  that  regard  which  she  once  had  possessed 
entirely.  And  being  more  fond  than  proud,  and  more  eager  to 
accomplish  her  desires  than  cautious  to  hide  her  purpose,  she  at 
once  showed  Gilbert  what  she  was  about. 

"  My  little  Beatrice  ! "  he  thought,  much  perplexed,  "  you 
are  very  kind,  but  I  must  put  a  stop  to  that  too.  No,  I  cannot 
afford  it.  I  wonder  if  fault-finding  will  make  you  like  poor 
Gilbert  less?" 

He  half  sighed,  for  the  task  was  not  a  pleasant  one.  Bea- 
trice had  faults,  to  be  sure,  but  Gilbert  would  just  as  soon  have 
let  them  rest.  He  did  not  do  so,  however,  and  one  evening  that 
they  happened  to  be  alone  in  Mrs.  Gervoise's  sitting-room,  he 
began  his  task  with  some  sweeping  censures  on  Beatrice's  gen- 
eral behaviour  to  Miss  Jameson. 

"  I  hope  I  have  not  displeased  you,"  he  hypocritically  added, 
seeing  her  redden  with  pain. 

"  No,  Gilbert,"  she  answered,  trying  to  remain  calm  and 
brave ;  "I  like  you  to  tell  me  of  my  faults,  I  know  I  have 
plenty." 

"  Well,  you  have  your  share,"  he  frankly  replied. 

He  spoke  in  jest,  but  the  words  went  to  Beatrice's  heart. 

"  More  than  my  share,"  she  said  recklessly ;  "  but  you  see, 
Gilbert,  I  have  not  exactly  been  reared  like  other  girls.  I  have 
lived  in  this  old  Carnoosie,  out  of  the  world  and  its  ways,  and  I 
have  grown  up  pretty  much  as  weeds  grow — after  my  own 
fashion.  My  poor  mother  has  been  wrapped  in  ill  health  and 
could  not  mind  me,  and  I  am  afraid,  Gilbert,  I  was  not  of  a  tem- 
per to  mind  any  one.  Mr.  Ray  did  me  good,  and  I  felt  it,  but  he 
lived  in  strange  doubts,  and  he  is  dead  ;  and  so  I  grew  up  as  I 
tell  you,  Beatrice  Gordon,  and  somewhat  of  a  heathen,  I  fear." 

Gilbert  became  suddenly  grave,  andJooked  at  her  keenly. 
Without  design  on  his  part,  but  in  the  progress  of  discourse,  he 
had  once  or  -twice  touched  on  religion  in  speaking  to  Beatrice. 
And  every  time  he  had  done  so,  she  had  either  remained  sadly 
silent,  or  turned  her  gay  speech  to  some  other  matter.  Gilbert 
knew  under  what  conditions  Beatrice  had  been  left  to  his  father's 
guardianship,  but  perhaps  he  knew,  too,  how  Mr.  Gervoise  was 
likely  to  fulfil  this  trust. 

"  A  heathen ! "  he  said  at  length ;  "  you  do  not  mean  it, 
Beatrice." 

8* 


178 


BEATEIOE. 


Beatrice  was  silent. 

Gilbert  looked  as  he  felt — ^pained.  He  had  a  strong  feeling 
of  religion,  as  he  had  of  duty,  of  honour  and  principle,  and  he 
could  not  bear  to  hear  Beatrice  talk  so.  He  looked  at  her  again 
and  half  sighed. 

"  Oh  !  Beatrice,  Beatrice  !  " 

"  I  cannot  help  it,"  she  said  recklessly,  and  a  little  defiantly, 
too.  "  I  tell  you  I  have  lived  out  of  the  world,  and  its  laws  and 
its  proprieties.  Once,  many  years  ago,  mamma  took  a  drive  in 
the  country.  Miss  Jameson  was  with  us.  She  and  I  got  down 
and  wandered  away  to  a  little  church.  I  do  not  know  why  or 
how  there  was  a  service  in  it,  but  there  was.  The  door  was 
open,  and  we  stood  near  it  and  looked  in  at  the  congregation.  It 
was  a  very  pretty  sight,  and  the  voices  singing  sounded  very 
sweet ;  but  Miss  Jameson  burst  into  tears,  and  walked  away, 
and  since  I  came  to  Carnoosie,  Gilbert,  that  is  all  I  knew  of 
religion.  I  remember  when  we  were  both  in  Kensington,  at 
Eosemary  Cottage,  we  used  to  go  together  on  a  Sunday  morning 
to  the  little  chapel  in  Holland  Street.  I  had  been  there  with  my 
father,  too.  I  remember,  Gilbert,  the  voices  singing,  and  the 
priest's  face,  and  the  pew  in  which  we  sat,  and  there  is  as  a 
dream  of  a  sermon  we  once  heard,  a  fine  one  we  thought  it  then, 
as  we  spoke  and  walked  home  through  the  lanes ;  but  I  have 
outlived  all  that,  you  see,  and  learned  other  lessons  in  Car- 
noosie." 

Gilbert  looked  at  her,  and  his  purpose  of  reproof  melted  away 
from  him.  His  heart  ached  for  her.  Poor,  ill-taught,  ill-reared 
Beatrice  !  How  could  he,  the  son  of  her  wronger,  reprove  her 
for  the  faults  she  had  acquired  under  such  teaching  ?  All  he 
said  was — 

"  My  poor  little  Beatrice  ! " 

"  Yes,  you  do  well  to  pity  me,"  she  said,  turning  away,  *'  for 
I  sometimes  feel  cast  out  of  love  and  faith.  I  cannot  bear  to 
hear  church  bells,  Gilbert ;  and  when  I  see  parents  and  their 
children  walking  happily  on  to  worship,  I  feel  a  rebel's  bitterness 
in  my  heart." 

This  time  Gilbert  smiled.  How  different  he  and  Beatrice 
were !  How  she  exaggerated,  in  her  imaginative  girlish  way, 
the  accidents  of  her  unhappy  education  !  How  she  made  herself 
out  a  lost  angel,  standing  forlorn  at  the  gate  of  Paradise  !  But 
Beatrice  saw  the  smile,  and  took  it  amiss. 

"  You  are  laughing  at  me,"  she  said,  a  little  indignantly. 

"  Heaven  forbid ! "  piously  said,  Gilbert. 


BEATRICE.  179 

*'  Gilbert,  you  do  not  care  about  me." 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  lie  replied  with  his  cabu  smile. 

*'Ah!  but  how?" 

"How? — as  one  cares  about  every  thing  that  is  delight- 
ful," of  course.  Let  me  see*  I  like  you  as  I  like  a  bird  on  a 
tree  in  spring,  roses  in  a  garden  in  summer,  or  a  peach  on  the 
wall  in  autumn,  or  as  I  like  all  these,  if  you  please." 

Beatrice  turned  her  head  away.  He  would  not  treat  her 
seriously.  She  was  a  child  in  his  eyes.  With  keen  pain  she 
felt  that  she  amused  him — that  was  her  hold  on  Gilbert.  Her 
society  was  pleasant  to  him  in  that  way,  but  Gilbert  could  do 
without  amusement,  and  once  he  had  turned  his  back  on  Car- 
noosie,  Beatrice  would  be  forgotten.  "  I  cannot  make  him  like 
me,  do  what  I  will,"  thought  Beatrice. 

He  saw  that  he  had  displeased  her,  and  he  was  sorry. 

"Again?"  he  said,  reproachfully. 

"  Yes,  again,  and  for  ever  again,  whilst  you  talk  so." 

"And  yet  birds,  roses,  and  peaches  are  pleasant  in  their 
way." 

"  I  am  much  obliged  to  you,"  replied  Beatrice,  "  I  treat  you 
as  a  friend,  and  you  treat  me  like  a  bird,  a  rose,  or,  more  flat- 
tering still,  a  peach.     I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  Gilbert." 

She  looked  grave  and  displeased. 

"  What  a  child  she  is  !"  thought  Gilbert.  He  clung  rather 
tenaciously  to  the  belief  that  Beatrice  was  childish — ^perhaps  be- 
cause he  would  have  been  glad  to  find  in  her  the  little  Beatrice 
of  old  days.  Often  did  he  long  to  pass  his  hand  through  her 
heavy  dark  curls,  as  he  had  so  often  passed  it  when  they  were 
children  both,  rousing  her  wrath  and  braving  her  defiance.  He 
would  have  liked  to  have  her  nestle  up  to  him  and  caress  him 
with  innocent  security.  "  What  a  pity  she  has  grown  up  !  "  he 
thought,  looking  at  her  now ;  "  I  should  like  my  little  Beatrice 
back  again.  If  ever  I  have  a  daughter,  Beatrice  shall  be  her 
name." 

And  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  he  told  her  so. 

Beatrice  reddened  and  tapped  her  foot. 

"  You  will  make  me  jealous  of  that  Beatrice,"  she  said 
warmly.     "  I  wish  she  were  dead." 

"  And  so  she  is,"  sighed  Gilbert,  with  mock  sorrow ;  "  dead 
and  buried.  Daisies  and  green  grass  are  growing  on  her  grave 
somewhere,  and  behold  her  slayer  !  " 

He  looked  in  the  glass.  Beatrice  looked  too.  She  saw  him, 
and  he  saw  her.     It  was  a  strange  moment  for  both.     They  ex- 


180  BEATRICE. 

changed  looks  in  the  bright  and  clear  surface.  Thev  began  in 
jest,  and  ended  in  earnest.  Beatrice  got  frightened  first.  The 
mirror  seemed  to  grow  deep  as  a  world,  a  world  in  which  each 
sought  but  the  other.  She  quickly  turned  and  looked  at  Gilbert. 
She  feared  him  less  than  his  image.  Of  the  two  he  was  the 
more  troubled.  He  was  pale,  and  would  scarcely  look  at  Bea- 
trice. She  had  already  recovered,  and  said  quickly,  "  What  is 
it!  What  ails  you?" 

"  Nothing.  I  felt  giddy."  He  walked  to  the  window,  and 
thought,  "  That  little  Beatrice  is  a  witch.  I  do  believe  I  was  as 
near  making  a  fool  of  myself  then  as  ever  man  was.  It  was  well 
she  turned  round  and  broke  the  spell.  I  must  settle  that  once 
for  all." 

So  he  went  back  to  the  fire,  and,  sitting  down  by  Beatrice, 
he  looked  at  his  watch,  and  said : 

"  My  father  will  not  come  to-night." 

"No,"  replied  Beatrice,  and  she  thought,  "What  a  bless- 
ing!" 

"Beatrice,  you  have  not  asked  on  what  business  I  came  to 
Carnoosie." 

"Then  it  was  business  brought  you — ^not  poor  Beatrice," 
she  said,  rather  sadly. 

"  It  was  business,"  he  persisted  ;  "  and  business  which  the 
mistress  of  Carnoosie  has  a  right  to  know.  I  came  here  to  ask 
my  father's  consent  to  my  marriage." 

Beatrice  looked  bewildered. 

"  You  are  going  to  get  married  !  "  she  cried. 

"  I  hope  so,"  he  composedly  replied.  "  I  hope  you  do  not 
object  to  it,  Miss  Gordon." 

He  seemed  amused  at  the  thought,  for  he  was  thinking  of  the 
little  wilful  mistress  of  Carnoosie  of  old  times — of  that  jealous 
Beatrice  who  wanted  him  all  for  herself.  Beatrice  understood 
him  but  too  well,  and  his  tone  stung  her.  She  raised  her  hand- 
some head,  and,  looking  him  steadily  in  the  face,  she  asked — 

"  Why  should  I  object  to  it,  Doctor  Gervoise?" 

"  Why  Doctor  Gervoise? — Avhy  not  Gilbert?  " 

"  After  all,  why  should  he  not  marry,  poor  fellow?"  thought 
Beatrice,  calming  down,  and,  with  a  cheerful  though  not  very 
cordial  smile,  she  asked  softly  : 

"Who  is  she,  Gilbert?" 

"  A  young  lady  whose  mother  I  attended." 

"In  Verville,  of  course.     What  is  her  name?" 

"  Lucie  Joanne." 


BEATEICE.  181 

"  Is  she  young? — but  of  course  she  is." 

"  About  twenty,  I  believe." 

"  What  is  she  like,  Gilbert?" 

She  raised  her  inquiring  eyes  to  his,  and  Gilbert  smiled  as 
he  looked  at  her,  and  replied : 

"  Very  unlike  you." 

"  Of  course  she  is  very  pretty,*'  said  Beatrice,  affecting  to  con- 
sider his  remark  as  implying  the  fact. 

"  Indeed,  she  is  not— beauty  is  too  costly  for  poor  Doctor 
Gervoise  ;  but  she  is  not  plain  either,"  he  added,  smiling.  "  She 
is  well,  as  we  say  in  French,  and  amiable,  and  good.  Are  you 
satisfied  ?  " 

"I  am,  if  you  are,"  quietly  said  Beatrice ;  "  and  of  course 
you  are — ^you  would  not  have  selected  her  if  you  did  not  love  and 
admire  her,  nor  would  she  have  accepted  you." 

"  But  she  has  not  accepted  me,"  interrupted  Gilbert ;  ''  for  I 
could  not  ask  her  without  first  having  my  father's  consent." 

"Then  she  does  not  know  you  want  her?"  exclaimed 
Beatrice. 

^      "I  have  spoken  to  her  mother,  and  perhaps  her  mother  has 
spoken  to  her,"  replied  Gilbert  gravely. 

"  And  you  have  not  spoken  to  her  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not." 

"  Then  perhaps  she  will  not  have  you  after  all." 

"  Perhaps,  as  you  say,  she  will  not — yet  I  think  she  will. 
She  has  always  been  gentle  and  kind  with  me — ^but  then  it  is  her 
nature  to  be  so." 

Gilbert  looked  thoughtful ;  but  he  looked  neither  hopeful  nor 
despondent.  Beatrice's  dark  eyes  searched  his  face  in  vain  for 
the  tokens  of  a  true  lover's  hopes  and  fears  ;  he  detected  her,  and 
smiled  at  her  with  a  grave  smile  which  was  peculiar  to  him. 

"You  are  quite  right,"  he  said,  answering  her  thought, 
"  this  is  no  grande  passion ;  yet,  for  all  that,  I  wish  to  be  Lucie 
Joanne's  husband,  and  I  do  believe  she  wishes  to  be  Docteur 
Gervoise's  wife.-  She  is  amiable,  very  gentle  and  intelligent; 
she  has  a  small  income,  and  though  I  am  not  mercenary,  I  can- 
not marry  a  poor  girl." 

"  Why  so  ?  "  interrupted  Beatrice  quickly. 

Gilbert  hesitated. 

"  Why  so?"  she  said,  again  ;  "  tell  me,  Gilbert." 

"  I  will  tell  you,  Beatrice  ;  and  when  I  have  told  you,  I  have 
really  told  you  my  great  secret.  I  do  not  mean  to  devote  my- 
self exclusively  to  my  profession.     It  is  a  noble  one,  and  I  like 


182  f  BEATEICE. 

it,  but  I  must  have  sometliing  else — science.  I  wish  to  follow 
modern  discovery,  and,  if  God  give  me  the  power,  to  help  it, 
even  though  humbly.  I  cannot  marry  a  poor  girl,  and  be  bur- 
dened with  all  the  cares  of  a  family.  To  do  so  would  be  to  bid 
the  only  joy,  the  only  ambition  of  my  life,  adieu.  I  have  fitted  up 
a  little  laboratory  in  my  house  in  VerviUe  ;  and  there,  Beatrice, 
I  have  abeady  spent  such  happy  hours  !  You  know  nothing  of 
science — what  a  pity  !  I  am  sure  you  would  like  it  ?  If  I  were 
to  stay  in  Carnoosie,  I  would  show  you  how  to  begin." 

Beatrice  heard  him  with  surprise.  Gilbert's  blue  eyes  sparkled ; 
he  looked  eager  and  ardent.  Truly  he  had,  as  he  said,  revealed 
his  great  secret. 

"  And  Mademoiselle  Joanne  ?  " 

"  Well,"  replied  Gilbert,  calming  down,  "  I  am  sure  of  her 
mother,  and  almost  sure  of  her.  I  do  not  see  why  my  father 
should  object  to  so  suitable  a  match,  and  therefore  I  consider  the 
matter  settled.  I  confess  to  you,  Beatrice,  that  being  a  domestic 
man,  I  long  to  have  a  wife  and  a  home,  and  hope  to  be  very  happy 
with  both.  I  think,  too,  I  may  say  that  if  Mademoiselle  Joanne 
is  not  happy  with  me,  it  shall  be  no  fault  of  mine.  I  feel  very 
much  inclined  to  make  her  a  happy  woman,  and  where  there  is 
a  will  there  is  a  way,  you  know." 

"  I  wish  I  were  as  sure  of  many  things  as  I  am  of  her  hap- 
piness," cried  Beatrice,  ardently  ;  "  and  yet  I  am  selfish — I  am 
sorry  you  are  getting  married,  Gilbert,  for  you  are  lost  to  us." 

Tears  stood  in  her  eyes,  and  she  could  scarcely  speak.  She 
resumed  more  calmly : 

"  On  seeing  you,  I  felt  as  if  a  long  lost  brother  had  returned, 
and  now  I  have  scarcely  seen  you  when  I  learn  that  you  are 
lost  again;  for  marriage,  and  very  justly,  I  suppose,  breaks  all 
the  old  ties.  You  must  belong  to  your  wife,  and  she  to  you.  If 
I  could  go  and  live  near  you,  I  would  make  her  my  friend,  and 
then  have  a  sister  as  well  as  a  brother.  I  do  so  want  a  friend 
sometimes — ^but  it  cannot  be.  Dear  Mr.  Ray,  so  good,  so  gen- 
tle, so  kind,  is  dead ;  and  you  appear  but  to  depart,  and  I  must 
return  to  the  old  life." 

"  Beatrice  ! — Beatrice  ! "  he  exclaimed,  much  moved,  for  her 
tears  were  flowing. 

"  I  cannot  help  it,"  she  said ;  "  you  have  had  a  hundred 
things  in  your  life,  I  have  had  but  two  or  three  ;  and  when  one 
goes,  as  this  is  going  now,  my  heart  will  ache." 

Gilbert  was  touched  with  Beatrice's  frankness. 

"  Beatrice — my  good  little  Beatrice,"  he  said,  taking  her  two 


BEATRICE.  183 

hands  in  his,  "  friendsliip — ^true  friendship^ — does  not  go  so,  and 
yours  is  the  only  friendship  in  my  life." 

"  And  Mademoiselle  Joanne  !  " 

"  In  the  first  place  that  is  not  friendship,"  he  replied,  with  a 
half  smile  ;  "in  the  second,  Mademoiselle  Joanne  is  too  correct 
a  young  lady  to  care  about  me  until  she  becomes  Madame  Ger- 
voise,  if  such  is  her  fate." 

"  Then  it  is  no  love  match?  " 

"  My  dear  little  Beatrice,  I  cannot  help  it.  I  have  not  been 
able  to  fall  in  love,  so  I  take  a  girl  whom  I  like  and  esteem,  and 
I  hope  to  be  happy  with  her.  I  know  this  is  dreadful  heresy  ; 
but  I  repeat  it,  I  cannot  help  it." 

Beatrice  said,  "  Of  course  not."  To  say  the  truth,  she  was 
not  over-anxious  that  Gilbert  should  be  desperately  in  love  with 
Mademoiselle  Joanne.  It  was  quite  bad  enough  that  he  should 
marry  her.  Her  first  emotion  was  over,  and  she  looked  a  little 
flushed  still,  but  neither  disturbed  nor  unhappy. 

"  This  is  how  men  and  women  cheat  their  own  hearts,  and 
the  hearts  of  their  neighbours  too,"  thought  Gilbert,  looking  at 
Beatrice ;  "  I  do  not  know  if  Beatrice  thought  of  friendship  a 
while  ago,  but  surely  I  did  not.  Fancy  and  beauty  play  us 
strange  tricks  now  and  then  ;  but  for  Lucie  Joanne,  I  suppose  I 
should  be  desperately  in  love  by  this,  op  think  myself  so.  Mighty 
passions  are  born  thus,  and,  nursed  by  weak  wills  and  frail  hearts, 
they  become  unconquerable.  Thank  Heaven,  Beatrice,  I  am  free 
from  blame  with  you." 

"  Oh,  dear ! "  said  Beatrice,  with  a  start  and  a  frightened 
look. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Gilbert,  surprised. 

"  I  am  nervous  since  Mr.  Ray  died,"  replied  Beatrice,  re- 
covering her  self-possession,  "  but  I  am  almost  sure  I  have  just 
heard  Mr.  Gervoise's  voice  in  my  mother's  room." 

Gilbert  listened,  and  heard  it  too.  They  both  waited  silently, 
thinking  Mr.  Gervoise  would  appear,  but  he  did  not.  When  the 
door  opened,  it  was  Mrs.  Gervoise's  pale  and  startled  face  that 
looked  in  at  them. 

"•  Good  night,  Gilbert — good  night,  Beatrice,"  she  said, 
faintly  ;  "  Mr.  Gervoise  cannot  see  you  to-night — he  is  quite  ex- 
hausted." 

Thus  dismissed,  Gilbert  rose,  and  bidding  his  step-mother 
good  night,  withdrew.  Beatrice  stood  irresolute  for  a  while, 
then  she  yielded. 

"  Good  night,  my  poor  darling,"   she  said  softly,  and  she 


184  BEATEICE. 

sailed  out  of  Mrs.  Grervoise's  sitting-room  with  the  look  of  an  in- 
dignant queen. 

"They  are  gone,"  said  Mrs.  Gervoise,  in  alow  voice. 

Mr.  Gervoise  came  out  of  her  room,  and,  taking  possession 
of  Beatrice's  favourite  chair,  stretched  his  legs  and  warmed  his 
feet  at  the  fire. 

"  Have  they  long  been  alone?  "  he  asked. 

"Only  a  few  minutes,"  faltered  Mrs.  Gervoise;  "Miss 
Jameson's  head  ached,  and  she  could  not  come  and  sit  with 
them." 

"But  they  have  often  been  alone  during  the  past  week?" 

"  Not  very  often." 

"  Are  they  distant  and  cool,  or  familiar  together  ?  " 

"  They  were  great  friends  once,  you  know,"  said  the  poor 
lady,  "  and  so  they  are  familiar,  but " 

"  Mrs.  Gervoise,  I  must  entreat  you  to  answer  me  plainly. 
You  know  my  meaning  well  enough.  Has  any  of  the  nonsense 
which  often  goes  on  between  young  people  been  going  on  between 
them?" 

"  No,  no,"  replied  Mrs.  Gervoise,  with  suspicious  eagerness. 
"  You  need  not  fear  any  thing  of  the  kind,  Mr.  Gervoise,  I  would 
not  hav€i  allowed  it." 

Mr.  Gervoise  looked  scornfully  at  his  wife. 

"  Mrs.  Gervoise,  you  are  a  fool,"  he  said. 

"  Indeed,  Mr.  Gervoise,  I  did  my  best." 

"  Mrs.  Gervoise,  you  are  an  incorrigible  fool.  Do  you  sup- 
pose that  I  would  have  had  my  son  here  a  week  with  Beatrice  if 
I  did  not  mean  something  by  it  ?  " 

Mrs.  Gervoise  stared  at  her  husband. 

"  You  intend "  she  began. 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Gervoise,  I  do  intend,  and  you,  like  an  idiot  as 
you  are,  instead  of  seconding  my  plans,  have  been  thwarting 
them.  Your  daughter  has  refused  to  marry  my  younger  son — 
well  and  good.  If  she  does  not  marry  the  elder  one,  she  shall 
never  marry  at  all.     Bear  that  in  mind." 

Mrs.  Gervoise  was  too  much  amazed  to  utter  one  word. 

"  Where  is  Beatrice  now?  "  asked  Mr.  Gervoise. 

"  In  her  room,  I  suppose."  . 

"  Send  for  her — or  rather — no,  go  and  see  if  she  is  there."  ^ 

Mrs.  Gervoise  went,  and  came  back  with  the  tidings  that 
Beatrice  was  not  in  her  room. 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  where  she  is,  Mrs.  Gervoise?"  asked  her 
husband  with  a  triumphant  smile  ;  "  she  is  in  the  library,  with 


BEATKICE.  186 

my  son  Gilbert.  I  shall  go  and  look  at  them,"  he  added, 
rising. 

And  though  Mr.  Gervoise  was  so  far  exhausted  that  he  was 
unequal  to  the  company  of  his  son  and  step-daughter,  his  interest 
in  their  welfare  was  so  great  that  he  actually  rose  and  left  the 
warm  sitting-room  to  go  out  on  the  cool  terrace.  Light  shone 
in  all  the  library  windows,  and  Mr.  Gervoise,  drawing  near  one, 
peeped  in  and  saw  them. 

Ay,  they  were  there  together,  but  by  accident,  and  not  by 
design,  as  he  thought.  Gilbert  had  gone  down  to  the  library  to 
read  and  end  his  evening,  and  the  same  purpose  had  drawn  Bea- 
trice there.  Neither  had  the  wisdom  or  the  fortitude  to  depart 
on  finding  the  other. 

Mr.  Gervoise  watched  them  with  a  keen  and  scrutinizing 
eye,  and  if  his  eyes  were  no  longer  pleasant  to  look  at,  they  were 
excellent  for  use,  and  served  him  well.  He  could  not  hear,  but 
for  that  he  did  not  care.  Seeing  is  as  good  as  listening  in  some 
cases.     He  saw  this. 

Unconsciously  Gilbert  and  Beatrice  made  a  fair  picture  as 
they  sat  thus  side  by  side,  an  open  volume  between  them,  her 
dark  eyes  raised  to  his,  his  calm  blue  glance  bent  on  her  face, 
rosy  with  a  delicate  flush,  and  smiling  and  happy.  There  was 
no  mistaking  the  meaning  of  their  looks.  Hers  beamed  with 
gentle  ardour,  his  with  admiring  tenderness,  but  the  tempting 
serpent  who  looked  at  them  little  knew  how  innocent  and  holy 
was  the  feeling  that  bound  them,  though  perhaps  not  without  its 
perils  and  its  shoals.  ^Earthly  in  all  his  feelings,  he  was  earthly 
in  his  thoughts  of  others. 

"  Ha,  ha,  my  lady,  I  have  you  now ! "  he  thought  as  he 
turned  away  laughing  at  the  success  of  his  plans. 

He  was  in  high  good-humour  when  he  went  back  to  Mrs. 
Gervoise. 

"  Now,  Mrs.  Gervoise,"  he  said  to  her,  "  I  hope  you  have 
understood  me  rightly.  Your  daughter  is  to  marry  my  son  Gil- 
bert, and  you  are  not  to  talk  or  to  interfere.  Let  them  be  to- 
gether, and  say  nothing.     You  understand  ?  " 

"  Quite  well.     But  does  Gilbert " 

"  Gilbert  knows  nothing,  but  I  have  been  watching  them, 
and  he  is  over  head  and  ears  in  love  as  it  is." 

"  I  am  afraid,  Mr.  Gervoise,  you  are-  mistaken,"  said  Mrs. 
Gervoise,  with  more  boldness  than  she  usually  displayed. 
'*  I  should  be  too  happy  to  have  Beatrice  married  to  Gilbert, 
but " 


186^  BEATEICE. 

"  I  tell  you  he  must  marry  her,  and  she  must  marry  him," 
interrupted  Mr.  Gervoise,  with  a  cold,  hard  voice.  "  Gilbert  is 
an  idiot  if  he  does  not  take  a  fine  girl  like  Beatrice,  with  Carnoo- 
sie  for  her  portion." 

Mrs.  Gervoise  would  have  been  an  idiot,  indeed,  if  she  had 
not  understood  her  husband's  meaning.  Her  health  and  her  life 
were  uncertain.  With  her  ended  his  claim  on  Carnoosie.  It 
was  expedient  to  secure  the  prize  habit  had  rendered  doubly 
dear,  into  Mr.  Gervoise's  family.  Antony  had  failed,  Gilbert 
must  succeed.  Let  him  only  marry  Beatrice,  and  Mr.  Gervoise 
could  defy  her  to  oust  him  from  his  splendid  nest.  He  knew  his 
elder  son,  and  what  chords  to  strike  in  order  to  win  him  over. 
Gilbert  was  the  slave  of  duty,  and  would  rather  leave  Carnoosie 
than  turn  out  his  father.  Appeal  to  his  sense  of  honour,  and, 
unbending  as  he  was,  Gilbert  became  your  slave.  He  must 
marry  Beatrice,  for  he  was  safer  than  Antony,  though  harder  to 
win. 

"  I  know  Gilbert  admires  Beatrice,"  began  Mrs.  Gervoise. 

"  Precisely,"  interrupted  Mr.  Gervoise,  "  he  admires  her,  as 
you  say,  and  your  daughter,  Mrs.  Gervoise,  is  just  the  girl  to 
make  a  man  marry  her  whether  he  likes  it  or  not." 

This  complimentary  remark  to  Beatrice  closed  the  conver- 
sation. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

Mr.  Gervoise  was  so  far  recovered  the  next  morning  as  to 
be  able  to  see  bis  son  Gilbert.  This  interview  was  long  and 
satisfactory,  no  doubt,  for  when  Gilbert  came  out  of  his  father's 
study  his  brow  was  open  and  his  look  was  smiling.  Beatrice 
met  him  in  the  hall,  and  had  no  trouble  in  reading  his  face. 

"It  is  all  right,"  he  said,  gaily,  "  and  I  can  be  off  next 
week." 

Beatrice's  heart  fell ;  this  was  Saturday,  next  week  meant 
Monday,  of  course. 

"  I  am  glad  it  is  all  right,"  she  said. 

"  And  so  am  I — I  confess,  Beatrice,  I  felt  anxious.  What 
a  fine  morning  !  You  were  going  to  take  a  walk ;  shall  I  ac- 
company you  ?  " 

Beatrice  was,  indeed,  attired  for  a  walk.  She  was  wi*apped 
in  velvet  and  furs,  and  she  wore  a  crimson  hood  of  most  becom- 
ing fashion. 

"  Beatrice,"  said  Gilbert,  as  he  took  her  arm,  and  led  her 
out  into  the  clear  frosty  morning,  "  you  were  born  for  wealth 
and  fine  apparel.  It  were  a  mortal  sin  you  should  ever  grow 
poor ! " 

Beatrice  did  not  answer.  They  were  going  down  the  steps 
of  the  terrace  into  the  garden.  She  looked  at  the  four  fountains, 
with  their  icicles  sparkling  in  the  sun ;  at  the  tall  bare  trees, 
spreading  their  broad,  leafless  branches  on  the  blue  sky,  and  she 
thought : 

"  Oh  !  Gilbert,  how  little  you  know  me,  and  how  you  wrong 
me  !  You  might  as  well  say  these  fountains  should  ever  play, 
and  these  trees  be  for  ever  green,  as  say  that  Beatrice  was  only 
meant  for  wealth.." 

Unconscious  of  his  offence,  Gilbert  pursued : 

"  Now,  Lucie  Joanne  was  meant  by  nature  for  mediocrity. 
She  is  delicate  and  refined,  and  a  lady ;  but  no  one  will  ever  take 


188  BEATRICE. 

her  for  a  Princess  in  disguise.  And  you  are  one,  Beatrice,  every 
inch  of  you  ! " 

Comparisons  are  said  to  be  odious.  In  vain  did  Gilbert's 
looks  express  the  admiration  he  felt,  in  vain  did  he  acknowledge 
Beatrice's  superiority.  His  words  hurt  her  to  the  quick,  for 
affection  is  subtle,  and  will  extract  sweetness  or  poison  from 
any  thing.  Feeling  that  he  was  inclined  to  go  on  with  his  re- 
marks, Beatrice  endeavoured  to  give  his  thoughts  another  turn 
by  saying : 

"  Gilbert,  I  want  to  see  Mademoiselle  Joanne." 

"  Well,  come  to  my  wedding." 

"  That  would  be  seeing  Madame  Gervoise.  I  want  to  see 
Mademoiselle  Joanne." 

Gilbert  looked  a  little  perplexed. 

"  I  want  to  see  her  here,"  continued  Beatrice ;  "  and  since 
your  father  agrees  to  your  marriage,  why  should  not  Mademoi- 
selle Joanne  and  her  mother  pay  us  a  visit  ? " 

Gilbert  remained  silent,  and  looked  embarrassed. 

"  I  have  never  had  a  friend,"  resumed  Beatrice.  "  I  never 
had  a  companion,  and  I  have  always  longed  for  one.  I  can  find 
no  friend  I  shall  value  more  than  the  girl  who  is  to  become  your 
wife  ;  but  for  that  I  must  see  her,  and  Mr.  Gervoise  will  not  let 
us  stir  from  Camoosie.  Let  her  come  to  me,  and  let  me  know 
and  love  her  ;  it  will  be  pleasant  to  think  of  you  both  after  that 
acquaintance.  You  will  be  like  brother  and  sister  to  me,  and 
your  children,  if  God  gives  you  any,  will  be  like  nephews  and 
nieces.    I  shall  feel  that  I  have  kindred,  and  I  do  not  feel  it  now." 

Still  Gilbert  was  silent.  Beatrice  gave  him  a  wondering 
look.     At  length  he  said : 

"  Do  not  misunderstand  me,  Beatrice.  What  you  ask  for  is 
impossible.  My  father,  too,  wanted  to  have  Lucie  and  her  mo- 
ther here,  and  I  have  declined.  I  did  not  tell  him  why — I  will 
tell  you."  , 

He  paused  a  little.  Beatrice's  inquiring  look  bade  him 
pursue. 

"  I  have  given  you  a  wrong  impression  of  Mademoiselle 
Joanne,"  said  Gilbert,  "  if  you  have  concluded  her  to  be  a  perfect 
person.  She  is  by  no  means  faultless.  Little  as  I  know  of  her, 
I  know  that  jealousy,  quiet,  silent  jealousy,  is  her  peculiar  fail- 
ing. It  has  not  frightened  me,  for  I  felt  I  would  spare  her  all 
cause  for  temptation  or  grief.  She  need  never  be  jealous  of  me, 
I  thought,  for  she  shall  never  have  a  rival.  But  that  rival, 
Beatrice,  she  would  see  in  you,  were  she  to  come  here.     She 


BE^TKICE.  189 

could  not  mistake  the  nature  of  our  friendship,  but  of  that  friend- 
ship itself  she  would  certainly  be  jealous,  and  perhaps  not  with- 
out cause,"  added  Gilbert,  frankly. 

"Jealous  of  me!"  said  Beatrice,  becoming  as  crimson  as 
her  hood. 

"  Ay,  indeed,  jealous  of  you.  Remember,  Beatrice,  I  have 
never  said  one  word  to  her,  and  that  my  opportunities  of  securing 
her  good  graces  have  been  few.  I  believe  she  is  willing  to  marry 
me — I  believe,  but  am  not  sure.  She  is  shy,  and  proud,  and,  as 
I  told  you,  jealous  in  a  silent  way.  If  she  sees  me  with  you, 
familiar,  free,  and  showing  to  you,  and  perhaps,  too,  feeling  more 
affection  than  to  her,  how  will  she  like  it?  You  see,  Beatrice, 
you  are  an  old  friend,  and  she  is  a  new  one  as  yet." 

"  But  you  mean  to  marry  her,  Gilbert?" 

"  I  do,  Beatrice,  and  I  mean  to  be  very  fond  of  her,  too, 
when  she  is  my  wife.  I  know  you  are  shocked,  and  think  me 
cold  as  ice.  I  cannot  help  it.  Love  must  come  after  marriage 
in  this  case." 

But  though  Beatrice  did  think  Gilbert  cold,  it  was  not  of  his 
coldness  to  Mademoiselle  Joanne  that  she  thought.  She  thought 
that  all  her  dreams  of  kindred  and  friendliness  to  himself  and  his 
future  wife  were  over.  A  woman  of  Mademoiselle  Joanne's 
temper  would  be  jealous  after  marriage  as  well  as  before.  She 
would  no  more  allow  her  husband  a  friend,  than  she  would  her 
lover,  and  it  was  plain  Gilbert  meant  to  give  her  no  cause  for 
uneasiness.  He  might  not  be  violently  in  love,  but  he  knew  what 
he  was  about.  Pie  wanted  to  marry  her,  and  he  would  put  by 
Beatrice  any  day  rather  than  lose  his  mistress's  good  graces. 
Poor  Beatrice !  she  could  not  even  be  his  wife's  friend,  or  the 
godmother  of  his  children.  She  was  to  be  set  aside,  even  before 
his  marriage.  She  was  nothing  to  him,  or  next  to  nothing.  Her 
heart  bled,  but  her  pride  was  roused  by  so  many  repulses,  and 
she  scorned  to  let  Gilbert  see  how  keenly  he  had  pained  her. 
She  called  up  a  smile,  and  said  gaily — 

"  You  do  not  do  me  justice,  Gilbert,  or  rather  you  are  jealous 
of  me.  You  are  not  very  sure  of  Mademoiselle  Joanne's  heart, 
and  you  are  afraid  I  should  take  more  than  my  share  of  it.  How- 
ever, let  it  be  as  you  wish.  I  dare  say  I  shall  know  her  sooner 
or  later,  and  then  you  will  see  how  groundless  were  your  fears." 

Her  tone  was  easy,  her  look  was  free,  but  Gilbert  was  only 
half  deceived.  There  was  just  a  little  twitching  in  her  upper  lip, 
which  betrayed  some  secret  feeling  she  would  not  show.  It  did 
not  seem  to  Gilbert  that  she  had  any  cause  to  be  offended,  though 


190  BEATEIOE. 

he  was  honest  enough  to  confess  she  might  have  some  cause  to 
be  hurt.  But  let  that  be  as  it  would,  he  could  not  help  it.  He 
had  spoken  the  truth,  and  the  truth  was  Gilbert's  idol.  In  her 
severe  aspect  he  found  perfect  beauties  no  other  image  possessed 
to  his  seeming.  An  austere  grace,  a  simple  charm,  she  wore  in 
his  eyes,  and  both  he  thought  matchless.  Nothing  earthly,  no 
temptation,  would  have  made  him  swerve  from  his  allegiance  to 
that  heroic  mistress,  and  small  indeed  was  Beatrice's  chance 
when  truth  was  at  stake.  Still  he  was  sorry  to  have  pained  her  ; 
but  how  much  he  had  done  so  he  could  not  divine,  for  Beatrice 
was  bent  on  concealment,  and  she  resumed  in  an  easy  tone — 

"At  what  o'clock  do  you  mean  to  leave  next  Monday, 
Gilbert?" 

"  Early,  so  please  Heaven." 

"  You  will  have  a  quiet  passage.  This  clear  frost  is  excel- 
lent weather." 

"  Beatrice,  what  are  you  doing?"  ' 

Beatrice  had  untied  the  strings  of  her  hood,  and  had  thrown 
it  back  from  her  flushed  face,  leaving  her  head  bare.  Authori- 
tatively, "  medically,"  as  Beatrice  felt,  Gilbert  replaced  the  hood 
and  tied  the  strings  under  her  chin.  Beatrice  let  him  do  it,  with 
ironical  composure.  She  cared  very  little  about  Gilbert  just 
then.  He  had  hurt  her  pride,  and  Beatrice's  pride  was  rarely 
touched  in  vain.  But  Gilbert  was  either  unconscious  of  his 
offence,  or  he  would  not  acknowledge  it  by  his  manner.  This 
remained  calm  and  free — cool  Beatrice  called  it  in  her  thoughts. 
She  felt  both  irritated  and  offended,  and  briefly  expressed  her 
pleasure  of  returning  to  the  house.  Mr.  Gervoise  saw  them 
from  his  window  as  they  passed  through  the  flower-garden,  and 
Beatrice's  face  told  him  matters  were  not  going  on  according  to 
his  wishes.  But  it  took  much  to  discourage  this  acute  gentleman  ; 
he  only  smiled  and  thought,  "  Wait  awhile,  my  lady,  he  will 
behave  better  presently." 

Wise  was  the  salvo  Gilbert  had  laid  on  his  departure.  Mr. 
Gervoise  was  taken  alarmingly  ill  in  the  night,  between  Sunday 
and  Monday,  and  of  course  Gilbert  could  not  leave  his  father. 
Doctor  Rogerson,  who  had  been  called  in  in  haste,  declared  there 
was  danger.  This  Gilbert  could  not  help  doubting,  and  Beatrice 
scarcely  concealed  her  scepticism.  Gilbert,  however,  looked  so 
grave  on  the  least  hint  she  dropped,  that  she  gave  up  the  subject 
of  her  stepfather's  illness,  for  one  more  congenial. 

"  Can  you  not  write  to  Madame  Joanne?"  she  asked  as  they 
met  in  the  library. 


BEATEICE.  191 

"  No,  she  is  a  great  formalist ;  it  will  not  do.  I  am  afraid, 
indeed,  she  will  be  offended  at  my  staying  so  long  away,  for  she 
knows  my  errand  here." 

"How  flattering  to  me!"  thought  Beatrice.  "How  long 
has  he  been  here  ? — ^ten  days  or  so." 

"  My  father's  delay  and  mine,  now  caused  by  his  illness,  will 
not  be  in  my  favour,"  continued  Gilbert,  looking  so  anxious  that 
Beatrice  forgot  her  displeasure  in  his  concern. 

"And  if  Mr.  Gervoise  had  refused  his  consent?"  she  sug- 
gested. 

"  Then  the  match  would  have  been  at  an  end.  Madame 
Joanne  would  never  let  her  daughter  enter  a  family  in  which  she 
was  not  welcome." 

"It  is  lucky  your  affections  are  not  engaged,"  pointedly  said 
Beatrice. 

Gilbert  smiled. 

"  I  am  afraid  my  little  Beatrice  is  not  very  wise  in  these 
matters,"  he  said,  half  gently,  half  ironically.  "  She  has  read 
some  novels,  and  looks  at  life  through  the  spectacles  of  these  wise 
instructors  of  youth.  To  preference,  regard,  and  esteem,  and 
calm  affection,  she  substitutes  the  Romeo  and  Juliet  feeling, 
which  laughs  at  obstacles,  and  conquers  both  Capulet  and  Mon- 
tague.    Is  it  not  so?" 

"  I  have  read  very  few  novels,"  indignantly  replied  Beatrice  ; 
"but  I  prefer  strong  and  deep  affection  to  the  weak  and  the 
cold." 

"  And  so  do  I,"  replied  Gilbert,  gravely  ;  "  only  it  does  not 
come  at  one's  bidding.  Besides,  Beatrice,  do  not  wrong  me. 
Believe  me,  when  a  man  of  honour  marries  the  girl  whom  he 
prefers,  and  finds  himself  linked  to  her  by  bonds  so  sacred  and 
so  tender  as  those  of  marriage,  he  must  love  her  deeply,  truly, 
fondly ;  he  would  not  be  worthy  of  the  name  of  man  if  he  did 
not." 

"I  did  not  mean  to  offend  you,"  said  Beatrice,  reddening. 

"  Nor  have  you  done  so — it  takes  something  to  offend  me, 
Beatrice." 

Beatrice  said  nothing,  but  she  thought  it  took  something  to 
move  him  in  any  fashion.  That  Gilbert  could  be  moved,  how- 
ever, she  had  the  opportunity  of  testing  before  long. 

Mr.  Gervoise  rallied  considerably  during  the  day,  and  he  was 
so  far  recovered  as  to  be  able  to  leave  his  room  and  come  down 
to  breakfast  the  next  morning.  These  sudden  changes  were  con- 
stitutional with  Mr.  Gervoise,  and  Beatrice  was  accustomed  to 


192  BEATRICE. 

them  ;  but  she  could  see  that  Gilbert's  looks  were  grave  and  per- 
plexed.    "  Poor  Gilbert,"  she  thought,  "  he  does  not  know  him 

yet." 

"  I  am  very  much  better,  my  dear  boy,  thank  you,"  affection- 
ately said  Mr.  Gervoise  in  reply  to  his  son's  inquiries.  "  My 
dear,''  he  added,  turning  to  his  ^ife,  "  you  told  Beatrice,  did  you 
not?" 

Mrs.  Gervoise  looked  bewildered  and  alarmed. 

"  I  don't  know — I  don't  remember,"  she  faltered. 

"  I  see,  my  dear,  you  have  forgotten  to  mention  it,"  said  Mr. 
Gervoise,  with  a  sort  of  mild  severity  which  characterized  his 
manner  in  public  ;  "  and  yet  I  was  so  particular  in  telling  you  to 
mention  it." 

Mrs.  Gervoise  drank  her  tea  and  looked  nervous,  but  did  not 
venture  to  answer. 

"  The  matter  is  this,"  pursued  Mr.  Gervoise,  turning  to 
Beatrice  :  "I  have  let  Antony's  cottage  to  a  Mr.  Stone,  a  great 
angler,  and  with  the  cottage  I  have,  of  course,  included  the  right 
of  angling  in  the  river  of  Carnoosie." 

Beatrice  coloured  violently.  She  was  jealous  of  her  rights 
and  her  privacy,  and  Mr.  Gervoise  had  done  well  to  tell  her  this 
in  the  presence  of  Gilbert.  This  kept  her  mute,  and  made  her 
submit  in  silence.  Mr.  Gervoise  wanted  no  more.  He  had 
made  a  capital  bargain,  let. the  cottage  at  double  its  value,  and 
secured  for  his  son's  tenant  a  moneyed  man,  with  a  pretty 
daughter.  It  was  all  very  well  to  make  Gilbert  marry  Beatrice, 
but  poor  Antony,  too,  must  get  a  wife.  He  was  rather  too  well 
known  in  the  county  to  have  much  chance  with  the  surrounding 
heiresses,  but  he  might  be  more  successful  with  a  stranger. 
This,  indeed,  was  but  a  chance ;  but  Mr.  Gervoise  never  neg- 
lected chances,  however  slender  or  remote.  Pleased  with 
Beatrice's  silent  submission,  he  once  more  addressed  his  dis- 
course to  Gilbert. 

"  I  suppose  you  think  of  going  soon  ?  " 

"  Now  that  you  are  recovered,  I  think  I  had  better  do  so." 

"  Very  true.  But  why  not  spend  your  honejTQOon  here  ? 
Why  not  bring  your  bride  to  Beatrice? — ^Beatrice  would  like  to 
know  her." 

Gilbert  smiled  gravely. 

"  You  forget  that  I  must  settle  down  in  Verville.  The  friend 
who  is  replacing  me  cannot  stay  much  longer." 

"  Well,  then,"  graciously  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  "  we  must  go 
and  see  you.     Mrs.  Gervoise,  Beatrice,  and  I,  must  come  down 


BEATEICE.  193 

upon  you,  Gilbert.  "We  must  see  your  little  wife,  my  boy.  A 
very  sweet  young  creature,  according  to  all  accounts.  I  quite 
long  to  know  her." 

"  Is  lie  plotting,  that  he  is  so  sweet,"  thought  Beatrice,  mis- 
trustfully. 

And  still  Mr.  Gervoise  went  on,  full  of  plans  of  the  pleasant- 
est  and  most  fatherly  nature.  He  even  indulged  himself  in  some 
grandpapa  visions,  and  was  jocular  on  the  subject,  until,  struck 
with  a  sudden  thought,  he  said  carelessly : 

"  By  the  way,  what  wedding  is  going  to  take  place  in  Verville  ? 
I  saw  you  received  a  hillet  def  aire  part  this  morning." 

"  No — I  got  none,"  said  Gilbert. 

"  Dear  me  !  did  the  stupid  servant  take  it  up  to  your  room?" 

Mr.  Gervoise  rang  the  bell,  and  inquired  at  once.  Yes,  the 
letter  had  been  taken  to  Gilbert's  room,  and  left  there,  and  now 
it  was  brought  down  and  handed  to  the  young  man,  one  of  those 
large  square  French  letters  which  tell  of  wedding  days  and  nup- 
tial benedictions. 

Gilbert  looked  at  it  in  evident  perplexity.  Who  could  be 
getting  married  in  Verville  ?  He  opened  and  read  it,  then  turned 
pale  as  death.  \ 

"  My  dear  boy,"  anxiously  cried  Mr.  Gervoise,  "  what  is  it?  " 

Gilbert  did  not  answer  at  once. 

"  Mademoiselle  Joanne  is  to  be  married  on  the  fifteenth,"  he 
replied  at  length,  and,  rising,  he  left  the  room. 

"  My  poor  boy ! "  exclaimed  Mr.  Gervoise. 

Beatrice  rose  and  said,  with  flashing  eyes  : 

"  This  is  your  doing,  Mr.  Gervoise." 

"  Miss  Gordon,"  virtuously  cried  Mr.  Gervoise,  "  beware 
lest  you  breed  discord  between  my  son  and  me  ! " 

"  Oh  !  you  are  safe,"  scornfully  replied  Beatrice,  "  and  you 
know  it." 

She,  too,  left  the  room,  heedless  of  her  mother's  alarmed  and 
entreating  looks. 

"  Poor  Gilbert,"  she  thought,  as  she  stood  in  the  hall,  "  whilst 
he  was  here  waiting,  his  father  was  breaking  off  the  match. 
Poor  Gilbert !  he  sees,  he  suspects  nothing.  He  does  not  see 
that  his  father  fell  ill  to  keep  him  here,  and  that  he  got  well  when 
the  letter  came.  The  post  is  not  in  yet — that  letter  came  yes- 
terday, I  know  it  as  if  I  had  seen  the  postmark  upon  it.  Poor 
Gilbert !  how  ill  he  looked !     Ah !  he  was  fond  of  her,  after  all ! " 

She  went  to  the  library,  hoping  to  find  him  there.     She  was 
not  disappointed  in  her  expectation.     Gilbert  sat  by  the  table, 
9 


194  BEATEICE. 

looking  at  the  fatal  letter  lying  wide  open  before  him.  With 
hesitating  step  and  slow,  Beatrice  approached  him,  and  standing 
at  the  back  of  his  chair,  looked  over  his  shoulder.  The  letter 
was  a  printed  one,  a  mere  formal  circular,  emanating  from 
Madame  Joanne  and  her  brother,  and  informing  the  recipient, 
the  honour  of  whose  presence  they  requested,  that  her  daughter 
Mademoiselle  Lucie  Joanne  was  to  be  married,  on  the  fifteenth 
instant,  to  M.  Theodore  Landais,  notary  in  Yerville. 

"  Gilbert,  who  is  he'?  "  asked  Beatrice. 
.       "A  new-comer — I  scarcely  know  him.     I  had  not  the  least 
suspicion  that  he  thought  of  her." 

He  spoke  in  an  even  and  firm  voice  ;  his  face  was  calm  though 
pale  ;  his  look  was  steady. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  Gilbert,"  she  said. 

Tears  stood  in  her  eyes,  for  she  was  pained  to  the  heart  at 
her  powerlessness. 

"  Good  little  Beatrice  ! "  he  said,  softly,  "  good  little  Beatrice  ! " 
and  taking  her  hand,  he  raised  it  to  his  lips.  "  Yes,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  you  are  good  and  true,  and  when  you  love,  you  love 
well,  Beatrice  ! " 

"  I  am  glad  you  appreciate  me  at  last,"  said  Beatrice,  a  little 
drily. 

"  I  know  you  are  sore  with  me,"  resumed  Gilbert,  "  and  I 
know  I  have  wronged  you.  I  have  treated  you  too  much  like  a 
child  ;  but  I  will  make  up  for  lost  time,  Beatrice  ;  and  who  knows, 
perhaps  it  is  you  will  remain  behindhand  now  !  " 

"  To  be  sure  !  "  said  Beatrice,  leaving  his  side  and  walking 
to  the  fire-place.  "I  must  ever  be  in  the  wrong,  must  I  not? 
First  a  child,  then  a  laggard  !  " 

"  Do  not  be  hard  upon  me,  Beatrice,"  said  Gilbert,  with  a 
sigh  ;  "  I  am  very  sore  at  all  this,  Beatrice." 

At  once  Beatrice  came  back  to  him. 

"  I  know  you  were  fonder  of  her  than  you  thought,"  she 
quickly  remarked. 

"  Well,  perhaps  I  was.  But,  indeed,  if  ever  girl  deserved 
affection,  she  did.  If  ever  girl  was  calculated  to  make  home 
happy,  she  was.  You  should  have  seen  her  with  her  sick 
mother,  gentle,  patient,  cheerful,  as  if  she  had  been  a  sister  of 
mercy  all  her  life  ;  ruling  the  household  with  calm  and  invisible 
power.  Beatrice,  it  was  impossible  to  see  her  and  not  think, 
'  Happy  the  man  i;dio  gets  this  girl — blessed  the  children  who 
have  such  a  mother ! '  She  was  made  for  home  and  its  joys. 
She  was  intelligent,  too,  though  not  brilliant ;  amiable,  though 


BEATEICE.  195 

not  very  lively  ;  and  I  think  she  liked  me,  or  at  least  saw  with 
pleasure  that  I  liked  her.  It  is  hard,  Beatrice,  to  think  that  I 
could  have  had  this  girl,  who  was  the  very  wife  for  me,  and  that 
I  lose  her,  apparently  without  reason.  Why  would  not  her 
mother  wait  as  she  had  promised  ?  Why  was  she  in  such  a 
hurry  to  give  her  to  another  ?  " 

•  "  Who  knows  !  "  cheerfully  said  Beatrice  ;  "all  is  not  over 
yet,  Gilbert." 

"  Beatrice,  I  will  make  no  attempt  to  change  her  fate  and 
mine.  I  would  not,  if  I  could,  urge  this  young  girl  to  disobey/ 
her  mother.  I  would  not  try  and  win  her  so  far  as  to  pledge 
herself  to  me,  and  waste,  in  waiting  for  a  doubtful  future,  the 
years  of  her  youth.  No— since  I  cannot  have  her,  let  her  not 
even  know  that  I  ever  sought  her.  Let  her  marry  that  man,  and 
be  happy  with  him,  and  let  us  both  keep  as  whole  hearts  as  we 
can,  and  not  make  our  fate  worse  by  flying  in  the  face  of  cir- 
cumstances." 

Gilbert  spoke  somewhat  sadly,  but  firm  will  was  in  his  voice 
and  look. 

"  He  never  loved  her,"  indignantly  thought  Beatrice. 

Gilbert,  who  read  her  face,  was  pained  for  once  at  its 
meaning. 

"  Do  not  be  unjust,  Beatrice,"  he  said,  with  some  reproach  ; 
"  do  not  accuse  me  of  coldness  in  your  thoughts,  because  I  call 
in  judgment  and  will  to  conquer  unavailing  regret." 

"  Gilbert,  I  do  not  accuse  you  ;  but  you  cannot  say  you  were 
much  attached  to  her." 

"  No,  Beatrice  ;  and  if  you  care  for  me,  never  wish  me  to 
be  much  attached  to  any  woman  ! " 

"  Why  so?  "  asked  Beatrice. 

But  Gilbert  did  not  reply.  He  had  said  more  than  he  in- 
tended, and  the  matter  was  not  one  he  could  well  discuss  with 
Beatrice.  We  all  know  ourselves  to  some  degree  ;  we  all,  after 
some  fashion,  follow  the  precept  of  the  ancient  sage.  Gilbert  knew 
himself  thus  far,  that  he  could  more  easily  wholly  deny  his  pas- 
sions than  indulge  them  partially.  He  had  never  felt  as  if  he 
could  taste  the  joys  of  life,  then  put  them  by  for  nobler  aims. 
His  desires  were  eager,  vehement,  and  not  easily  sated.  He 
would  have  the  entire  delight  or  none.  Pleasure  wearied  and 
provoked  him,  for  it  was  but  the  counterfeit  of  life's  great  prize, 
happiness.  He  had  passed  easily  enough  through  small  temp- 
tations, for  the  excellent  reason  that  they  did  not  tempt  him,  but 
he  was  not  sure  that  he  could  pass  unscathed  through  greater 


196  BEATRICE. 

perils.  A  beautiful  woman  worthy  of  her  beauty,  a  position  of 
intellectual  eminence  and  power,  had  early  seemed  to  him  as 
shoals  and  quicksands  to  the  weary  mariner.  The  woman  he 
could  passionately  love  was  beyond  his  reach.  Lovely  women 
are  rare,  and  those  whom  Gilbert  had  seen  from  afar  he  could 
not  aspire  to  without  presumption.  The  position  he  felt  that  he 
could  worthily  fill  was  also  very  remote,  but  here  he  could  *at 
least  wish  and  strive  in  secret,  without  hearing  the  reproving 
voice  of  conscience.  To  love  and  to  love  ardently  would  have 
been  ruin.  Gilbert  knew  it,  and  therefore  had  he  sought  the 
hand  of  Lucie  Joanne.  That  calm  union  would  have  given  him 
the  negative  happiness  which  was  best  for  him.  That  he  could 
feel  true  affection  for  her  he  knew,  that  he  should  ever  love  her 
passionately  he  did  not  fear.  This  was  the  meaning  of  his  reply 
to  Beatrice,  the  meaning  which  he  did  not  however  care  to  ex- 
plain. ^ 

It  may  be  that  a  feminine  instinct  gave  her  the  right  clue  to 
his  silence,  for  though  she  stood  looking  at  him  thoughtfully, 
Beatrice  did  not  repeat  or  press  the  question. 

"Gilbert,  you  will  stay  with  us,  will  you  not?"  she  said, 
after  a  while  ;  "  you  cannot  go  to  Verville,  can  you?  " 

Gilbert  did  not  answer  at  once. 

"  If  you  will  let  me  stay  here  for  a  little  while,"  he  replied 
at  length,  "  I  shall  be  glad  to  do  so." 

"  Oh !  yes,  I  will  let  you,"  replied  Beatrice  with  sparkling 
eyes.  She  was  very  sorry  for  Gilbert's  trouble,  but  she  was 
very  glad  that  he  was  remaining.  In  short,  it  is  an  ill  wind  that 
blows  nobody  good. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

The  world  is  full  of  love  stories.  The  city,  the  plain,  the 
crowded  street,  the  meanest  hovel  as  well  as  the  palace,  have  or 
have  had  their  love  tale  once  on  a  time.  It  may  have  been  sad 
or  gay,  an  idyll  or  an  elegy — it  matters  little,  wherever  you  may 
go,  wherever  you  may  be,  there  love  stories  have  been  before 
you  or  are  still,  for  they  are  spirits,  and  all  the  night  and  all  the 
day  long  they  haunt  the  whole  of  this  broad  earth. 

A  real  love-story,  such  a  love-story  as  it  had  not  known  for 
many  a  day,  now  visited  old  Carnoosie.  Mr.  Gervoise,  who 
never  read  novels,  perused  the  opening  pages  of  this  with  infinite 
pleasure.  His  satisfaction  indeed  rather  lessened  as  the  tale  pro- 
ceeded, for  he  could  not  help  seeing  that  one  of  these  two  per- 
sons who  always  make  up  a  love-tale  went  on  much  faster  than 
the  other  ;  but  then  he  remembered  that  heroines  rarely  fall  in 
love  in  the  first  page  of  the  book,  and  with  the  considerate  kind- 
ness of  his  character  he  requested  Mrs.  Gervoise  to  dispense 
more  and  more  with  the  society  of  her  daughter,  so  that  the  fit- 
ting opportunity  might  never  fail  Beatrice.  Guessing  likewise 
that  his  presence  might  interfere  with  the  course  of  Gilbert's 
true  love,  Mr.  Gervoise  wore  the  ring  of  Gyges,  for  he  saw 
every  thing,  and,  unless  at  meal  times,  remained  invisible. 

Beatrice,  though  usually  on  her  guard  against  this  astute 
gentleman,  now  quite  forgot  to  take  note  of  conduct  so  unusual. 
Gilbert  engaged  all  her  attention.  His  serenity  was  incompre- 
hensible to  her ;  the  laboratory  and  its  crucibles  took  much  of 
his  time,  and  seemed  to  have  charmed  his  grief  away.  The  fif- 
teenth came  round.  This  was  Mademoiselle  Joanne's  wedding 
day,  and  Gilbert  looked  actually  cheerful.  Had  he  forgotten  it  ? 
Beatrice  charitably  sounded  him,  and  ascertained  that  he  had 
not.  He  even,  in  reply  to  her  hint,  confessed  that  he  was  better 
pleased  to  have  that  day  over. 

"  I  am  wanted  in  Verville,"  he  said,  "  and  I  cannot  stay  for 
ever  in  your  pretty  castle  of  indolence — can  I,  Beatrice  ?  " 


198  BEATRICE. 

So  that  was  all  he  thought  of:  to  go,  to  be  able  to  return  to 
Verville  !  And  he  looked  quite  gay  and  airy  too  ! — ^he  did  ;  and 
the  worst  was,  that  Gilbert  was  only  looking  as  he  feit. 

A  great  change  was  coming  over  him,  a  subtle  fever  was 
stealing  into  his  veins,  and  its  first  effects  were  a  delightful  ex- 
hilaration, a  happy  raising  of  his  whole  being. 

Never  had  Gilbert  felt  so  young,  so  careless,  and  so  free. 
Blindness,  both  sudden  and  strange,  fell  upon  him.  The  danger 
which  he  had  felt  so  vividly  on  first  seeing  Beatrice  had  vanished 
from  his  view.  If  any  friend  had  come  to  him  and  said  :  "  Be- 
ware !  this  is  your  hour  of  peril.  That  girl  whom  you  see  daily, 
and  with  whom  you  are  so  easy  and  so  free,  is  the  mistress  whom 
you  are  destined  to  adore  !  "  Gilbert  would  have  laughed  at  that 
friend  with  derisive  security.  Daily  habit  rendered  him  indiffer- 
ent, as  he  thought?  to  Beatrice's  beauty.  It  no  longer  dazzled 
and  surprised  him,  but  it  charmed  him  in  a  hundred  subtle  ways, 
though  he  knew  it  not.  Her  young  bright  eyes  so  often  shone 
upon  him  that  he  forgot  how  sweet  and  how  genial  was  their 
light.  We  take  no  note  of  sunny  days  in  summer  time,  and  this 
was  the  summer  of  Gilbert's  young  manhood.  And  there  was 
nothing  and  no  one  to  waken  him.  Beatrice's  early  familiarity 
was  all  gone.  Gilbert's  coldness  had  checked  it  effectually.  He 
had  taught  her  not  to  make  her  friendship  too  cheap,  and  she  had 
taken  the  lesson.  She  was  kind  and  cheerful,  and  easy,  but  she 
was  no  longer  dangerously  free.  He  had  as  much  of  her  society 
as  he  pleased,  but  Beatrice  did  not  seek  him.  They  met  con- 
stantly in  the  library,  in  her  mother's  room,  in  the  garden  and 
the  grounds,  for  sudden  and  southern  spring  was  the  spring  of 
that  year.  Once  or  twice  Gilbert  spoke  of  going,  but  almost  on 
her  first  entreaties  he  yielded  and  stayed.  His  facility  softened 
some  asperity  which  still  lingered  in  her  mind  against  him  ;  she 
became  more  genial  and  more  friendly,  and  some  of  the  old 
warmth  returned  to  her  manner.  Gilbert  knew  well  enough  that 
he  had  lost  ground  in  Beatrice's  favour,  and  what  he  had  lost  he 
did  his  best  to  regain.  With  all  his  rigid  honesty  and  pitiless 
truth,  he  still  possessed  some  of  a  true  Celt's  innate  art  to  please. 
Beatrice  had  her  share  of  vanity,  and  without  seeking  to  foster 
the  feeling,  Gilbert  availed  himself  of  it  to  win  back  her  lost 
graces.  He  admired  her,  and  he  felt  under  no  necessity  of  con- 
cealing that  admiration.  He  implied  more  than  he  told  it,  but 
Beatrice  was  not  dull,  and  she  understood  well  enough  the  lan- 
guage of  his  looks  and  half-spoken  praises.  For  the  first  time 
a  man,  handsome,  young,  accomplished,  and  whose  admiration 


BEATEICE.  "  190 

she  valued,  showed  her  that  her  share  of  beauty  was  not  mean, 
and  that  her  other  gifts  were  many.  Gilbert  looked  at  her  with 
evident  pleasure,  and,  subtlest  flattery  of  all,  listened  to  her  with 
mingled  delight  and  attention  ;  and,  to  do  him  justice,  he  was  sin- 
cere in  this.  Beatrice  charmed  his  ear  as  well  as  she  charmed  his 
eye.  He  liked  her  pretty  petulant  speech,  her  highflown  imagina- 
tions, her  absurd  little  paradoxes,  her  romantic  strain.  But  what 
did  he  not  like  about  her?  Her  very  imperfections,  and  he 
neither  forgot  nor  turned  from  them,  charmed  him  more  than  all 
Lucie's  virtues.  Alas  !  blame  him  not !  he  was  losing  his  senses 
very  fast,  and  very  fast  he  was  going  down  the  steep  path  which 
leads  from  liberty  to  bondage,  and  which  it  is  so  hard  to  climb 
back  again. 

His  blindness  was  complete.  If  a  doubtful  consciousness  of 
danger  now  and  then  flashed  across  his  mind,  it  vanished  as  it  had 
come,  with  lightning  quickness,  and  left  him  in  deeper  security. 
Happy,  indeed,  was  this  time  for  Mr.  Gervoise's  son.  The  fairest 
skies,  the  brightest  sun,  shone  upon  it,  and  liberty  full  and  sweet 
crowned  its  blessings.  He  might  be  all  the  day  long  with  Bea- 
trice, and  no  one  meddled  or  minded.  Beatrice  was  happy  in  his 
society,  and  Gilbert  lived  in  a  dream,  and  never  thought  of  the 
wakening.  His  youth  had  been  solitary  and  severe,  and  pleasure 
now  came  to  meet  him,  a  smile  on  her  lips,  and  roses  on  her 
brow,  and  Gilbert  vowed  he  had  never  beheld  a  goddess  so  fair. 
How  ardently,  how  feverishly  did  he  greet  her !  With  what 
transports  did  his  eager  heart  welcome  that  sweet  and  long-for- 
bidden guest,  who,  leading  the  dark-eyed  Beatrice  by  the  hand, 
met  him  hourly  in  the  green  orchard,  in  the  lovely  grounds  or  in 
the  stately  forest  of  Carnoosie.  The  excess  of  that  enjoyment 
forbade  him  to  seek  and  analyze  the  source  from  which  it  sprang. 
Gilbert  had  had  many  hours  of  questioning  thought ;  he  was 
weary  of  the  profitless  task.  He  would  live  now,  and  feel  blest, 
and  not  know  why.  This  was  no  problem  to  solve,  no  vexing 
question  to  analyze ;  it  was  life,  the  full,  deep,  sweet  draught 
which  never  ceases  to  bless  or  to  torment  the  restless  human 
heart. 

And  thus  time  passed  imtil  the  wakening  came.  It  happened 
thus.  Mr.  Gervoise  had  been  very  cheerful  at  dinner.  He  had 
been  rather  more  than  cheerful,  he  had  been  paternal.  The  meal 
was  a  luxurious  one,  such  as  he  liked,  and  he  had  said  grace 
with  an  unctuous  gravity,  with  an  eye  to  his  favourite  soup  all  the 
time,  so  Beatrice  thought.  Her  heart  burned  to  hear  him  go 
through  this  sacred  form.     It  was  the  young  girl's  unhappy  lot 


200  ^  BEATRICE. 

to  see  every  tiling  good,  toly,  and  venerable  desecrated  by  that 
man.  The  repast  was  slow,  tedious,  and  dull.  Mr.  Gervoise 
never  could  eat  fast  himself,  nor,  if  he  could  help  it,  would  he 
allow  others  to  do  so.  At  length  it  was  over,  and  Beatrice,  ris- 
ing, helped  her  mother  out  of  the  room,  leaving,  as  usual,  Mr. 
Gervoise  to  sip  Beatrice's  wines.  When  Mrs.  Gervoise  reached 
her  sitting  room,  she  said,  with  a  sigh : 

"  I  shall  sleep  this  evening  ;  go  out  on  the  terrace,  my  dear, 
I  see  Gilbert  there." 

Beatrice  believed  her  ;  she  was  far  from  suspecting  that  Mrs. 
Gervoise  was -obeying  orders,  and  depriving  herself  of  her  daugh- 
ter's company  to  further  Mr.  Gervoise's  plans.  Poor  Beatrice  ! 
you  may  sacrifice  yourself  for  ever — ^you  will  never  have  but  a 
half  accomplice  in  that  poor  weak  lady  ! 

So  Beatrice,  nothing  loth,  went  out  to  Gilbert  on  the  terrace. 
She  came  softly  behind  him,  walking  on  tip-toe  ;  and  suddenly 
slipping  her  arm  within  his,  she  looked  up  triumphantly  into  his 
face. 

"  As  if  I  had  not  heard  you !  "  he  said,  smiling. 

"  You  did  not,"  pettishly  replied  Beatrice,  and  she  attempted 
to  take  her  arm  away,  but  he  held  it  fast. 

"I  did,  Beatrice,  but  it  is  just  like  you.  You  were  always 
so — you  always  wanted  to  surprise  and  frighten,  and  to  rule  me 
too,  and  you  only  did  the  last." 

"  I  wish  I  could  rule  you  now." 

"  You  can  if  you  like,  Beatrice." 

Beatrice's  eyes  sparkled  with  delight. 

^'  Then  you  will  stay  with  us  in  Carnoosie.  Don't  shake 
your  head.     You  will — you  will  practise  here  in  the  village." 

Gilbert  did  not  answer,  but  his  resolve  was  melting  fast  away 
from  him.  Why  should  he  not  stay  and  make  himself  a  home 
near  Beatrice  !  She  watched  him  keenly,  and  read  her  triumph 
in  his  face.  That  seemed  to  say,  "  Ay  Beatrice,  you  have  pre- 
vailed— I  must  stay  near  you.  I  cannot  do  without  you  now," 
and  it  may  be  that  such  was  its  meaning. 

Leaning  over  the  stone  balustrade,  Beatrice  looked  down  at 
the  fountains  and  the  flowers,  and  beyond  them  at  the  trees  and 
the  groves  of  Carnoosie,  and  she  thought,  "  I  must  have  been 
mad  when  I  called  life  a  burden  and  a  misery — there  is  nothing 
like  it.  It  is  a  very  elixir  of  sweetness  and  delight.  Gilbert  has 
not  been  here  more  than  a  few  weeks,  and  I  feel  almost  too 
happy.  What  will  it  be  when  he  settles  here  entirely  !  As  soon 
as  I  am  of  age,  I  shall  buy  out  Doctor  Kogerson ;  but  Gilbert 


BEATRICE.  201 

must  have  another  cottage  than  his — a  prettier  and  a  neater  one  ; 
a  home  where  Darling  and  I  shall  go  and  see  him,  and  spend 
half  a  day  looking  at  his  flowers,  and  settling  his  house  for  him 
—dear  Gilbert ! " 

"  What  are  you  smihng  at  so  ?  "  here  asked  Gilbert,  who  was 
watching  her  face. 

"  I  am  settling  your  house  for  you.  It  is  Mr.  Ray's — the 
best  in  the  village.  Only,"  she  added,  a  frown  knitting  her 
smooth  brow,  "  where  shall  we  put  the  sofa?" 

"Ay,"  laughingly  said  Gilbert,  "where  shall  we  put  it?" 
He  laid  a  stress  on  the  word  "  we,"  but  before  he  had  ceased 
speaking  his  heart  had  thrilled  within  him,  and  before  him  had 
flashed  a  very  sweet  vision.  He  was  the  young  doctor  who  was 
going  to  settle  in  Carnoosie,  and  Beatrice  was  the  doctor's  young 
wife  arguing  with  him  where  the  sofa  should  be.  How  Gilbert 
leaped  across  courtship  and  honeymoon,  and  found  Beatrice 
calmly  but  securely  his,  he  never  knew  ;  but  it  was  so.  It  was 
not  merely  love — it  was  far  more,  it  was  love  and  marriage.  It 
was  union  beyond  all  doubt,  and  it  was  Beatrice — his  to  hold 
fast  for  ever — nothing  less  perfect,  it  seemed  to  Gilbert  later, 
could  have  satisfied  him  even  then. 

"  Well,  what  is  it?"  asked  Beatrice,  looking  with  wonder  at 
his  flushed  face. 

Gilbert  could  not  answer  at  once.  The  vision  was  still 
before  him,  intoxicating  and  sweet.  At  length  he  shook  it  off, 
and  said : 

"  The  sofa  shall  be  where  you  please." 

He  smiled,  but,  even  as  he  spoke,  a  keen  pang  shot  through 
his  hearty  for  he  remembered  that  she  was  Beatwce  Gordon,  the 
mistress  of  Carnoosie,  the  unapproachable  star  that  might  shine 
above  him,  but  which  he  must  never  hope  to  reach. 

"  That  is  right,"  said  Beatrice,  and  she  gave  him  a  radiant 
smile. 

Gilbert  looked  at  her,  and  seeing  her  so  bright  and  so  cordial, 
he  felt  that  for  the  present  at  least  he  had  no  need  of  hope.  He 
could  stay  near  her,  hear  her,  and  see  her — was  not  that  enough  ? 
"  Life  has  not  spoiled  me,"  he  thought,  "  that  I  should  be  exact- 
ing, and  ask  for  all  her  prizes.  Why  not  take  what  she  gives 
me  now,  and  leave  the  rest  to  time?" 

"It  is  going  on  beautifully,"  thought  Mr.  Gervoise,  who 
never  lost  an  opportunity  of  pimping,  and  was  now  watching 
them  from  behind  a  window  curtain  ;  "  but  Gilbert  is  too  slow." 

The  passion  his  son  could  feel,  reverent,  though  deep,  the 
9* 


202  BEATEICE. 

innocence  of  Beatrice's  affection,  were  mysteries  Mr.  Gervoise 
could  not  fathom.  He  saw,  however,  that  they  were  happy ; 
and,  though  he  had  worked  hard  to  bring  that  happiness  about, 
he  grudged  it  to  them  in  his  heart,  for  he  knew  them — they  were 
happy  through  him,  but  they  liked  him  none  the  better  for  it. 

But  Mr.  Gervoise  never  allowed  his  feelings  to  interfere  with 
his  plans  ;  and  now,  thinking  it  time  to  waken  Gilbert  from  his 
slowness,  he  stepped  out  on  the  terrace  and  interrupted  the  tete- 
d-tete.  He  had  only  to  appear  for  Beatrice  to  enter  the  house. 
She  did  so  with  a  haughty  little  toss  of  her  head,  and  a  sweep  of 
her  sUk  dress,  which  seemed  to  afford  Mr.  Gervoise  much  amuse- 
ment. If  you  want  to  open  a  lover's  heart,  praise  his  mistress, 
so  Mr.  Gervoise  murmured  : 

"A  lovely  girl!" 

Gilbert  did  not  reply,  but  his  eyes  lit. 

"Young  Mr.  Thorne  wanted  her,"  continued  Mr.  Gervoise  ; 
"  he  fell  desperately,  wildly  in  love  with  her,  but  I  was  open 
with  him.  '  Mr.  Thorne,'  I  said,  '  I  can  give  you  no  hope. 
Your  honour  is  unimpeachable,  but  your  morals  are  loose  ;  you 
gamble  and  you  swear,  sir — you  swear.  You  cannot  have  my 
Beatrice.'  I  call  her  mine,  because  she  is  my  wife's,  and  what 
is  my  wife's  is  mine.     That  is  how  I  treated  Mr.  Thorne."   ^ 

Mr.  Gervoise  liked  romancing  ;  he  also  liked  to  torment,  anc^ 
he  now  saw  with  satisfaction  that  Gilbert,  who  did  not  know 
that  Mr.  Thome  was  fifty,  and  had  a  wife  and  three  daughters, 
looked  disturbed. 

"  Ah !  no  one  knows  what  I  have  done  for  that  girl,"  re- 
sumed Mr.  Gervoise,  with  a  sigh  ;  "  saving  her  up,  keeping  her 
in  solitude  all  fhese  years,  secluding  her  from  the  world  and  its 
temptations ;  and  indeed,  Gilbert,"  he  added,  with  a  sudden 
change  of  tone  and  manner,  "  I  cannot  allow  this  any  longer. 
Have  you  spoken  to  her?    Is  it  all  settled?" 

''What!"  cried  Gilbert,  taken  by  surprise,  as  his  father 
meant  that  he  should  be. 

"  Not  so  loud,  my  dear  boy,  not  so  loud.  You  know  my 
meaning.  You  do  not  suppose  I  am  blind,  that  I  do  not  see  you 
are  desperately  in  love  with  that  girl  ? " 

Gilbert  was  mute,  for  he  could  deny  nothing.  In  vain  he 
tried  to  recover  his  self-command  and  overcome  this  temptation. 
Mr.  Gervoise  was  willing  that  he  should  marry  Beatrice,  and 
why  should  he  not  ?  Once  he  had  thought  nothing  should  induce 
him  to  marry  a  rich  woman  ;  now  he  felt  that  were  Beatrice  as 
rich  as  Croesus  he  would  have  her  if  she  would  but  have  him. 


BEATRICE.  203 

At  that  very  moment  he  saw  her  at  her  mother's  window,  the 
light  of  the  lamp  which  she  held  shone  full  upon  her  face  and 
her  bare  head.  She  was  smiling,  and  looked  a  radiant  image  on 
the  dark  background  of  the  room.  Another  moment  and  the 
lovely  vision  had  vanished,  but  it  had  left  Gilbert's  heart  in  a 
fever.  Ah !  it  would  be  something,  indeed,  to  win  a  prize  so 
splendid ! 

"  Well ! "  said  Mr.  Gervoise. 

"  Well,"  replied  Gilbert,  "  Miss  Gordon  would  not  have 
me." 

"  Have  you  tried  ?" 

"  No." 

"Well,  then,  try — try  now.  Go  in  to  her.  Tell  her  she 
has  a  lovely  neck  and  fine  eyes,  say  something  of  the  sort,  and 
see  how  she  takes  it ;  or  rather — no,  tell  her  you  are  leaving  to- 
morrow. It  is  good  for  such  haughty  girls  as  Beatrice  to  suffer 
a  little.  Try  her,  I  say,  and  then  you  will  see  whether  she  is 
fond  of  you  or  not." 

Gilbert's  blood  felt  like  fire  in  his  veins  as  he  listened  to  the 
tempter.  If  Beatrice  did  really  love  him,  after  all !  If  he  could 
really  have  her !  ^ 

"  Gilbert,"  austerely  said  his  father,  "  this  is  no  matter  over 
which  I  can  let  you  linger.  I  repeat  it,  watch  that  girl  and  then 
speak,  or  leave  Carnoosie." 

He  walked  away,  and  Gilbert  entered  the  house  and  went  up 
to  Mrs.  Gervoise's  room.  "  I  will  have  her,"  he  thought  with 
every  step  he  ascended ;  "I  will  have  you,  Beatrice." 

A  blush  of  pleasure  rose  to  her  cheeks  as  he  entered  the 
room.  "Oh!  if  it  were  true!"  thought  Gilbert;  "if  it  were 
true  ! "  He  looked  ardently  at  Beatrice,  but  her  eyes  met  his — 
careless,  kind  and  free.  He  did  not  tell  her  that  she  had  a  lovely 
neck  or  fine  ^yes,  not  with  such  praise  did  Gilbert  prove  Bea- 
trice ;  but  he  watched  her,  he  listened  to  her,  and  he  doubted. 
She  sat  near  one  of  the  two  lamps  working.  The  room  was 
warm,  and  her  cheeks  had  a  glow  both  brilliant  and  delicate. 
Gilbert's  eye  rested  on  her  bending  face  with  an  eagerness  of 
which  he  was  not  conscious.  He  could  not  think  of  what  might 
be  without  mingled  passion  and  fever.  His  life  had  known  no 
great  joys,  no  exquisite  pleasures.  He  carried  within  him, 
unsated  still,  that  secret  thirst  for  happiness  which  we  all  bear 
in  our  hearts,  which  we  can  conquer,  indeed,  but  which  it  is  so 
sweet  to  quench,  were  it  but  once.  In  his  present  mood  Gilbert 
thought  that  to  have  and  love  Beatrice  and  be  loved  by  her  was 


204:  BEATEIOE. 

the  crowning  happiness  of  life.  He  forgot  death,  disease,  and 
the  frailty  of  the  human  heart.  Life  was  an  eternal  present, 
glorious,  healthful,  and  fond  ;  and  had  it  been  otherwise,  had 
wisdom  and  fear  and  sad  apprehensions  been  with  Gilbert  then, 
his  would  surely  have  been  no  true  love.  His  heart  melted 
within  him  as  he  pictured  her  his  wife,  not  in  Carnoosie,  but  in 
the  old  chateau  of  Verville,  where  he  had  been  reared,  filling 
those  gloomy  rooms  with  the  sunshine  of  her  presence.  But 
even  as  the  vision  was  at  its  sweetest,  Beatrice  looked  up  and 
composedly  threaded  her  needle,  and  there  came  a  thought  sting- 
ing him  to  the  quick.  Did  Beatrice  love  him  ?  The  doubt  was 
pregnant  with  such  keen  pain,  with  such  subtle  distress,  that 
with  a  nervous  thrill  Gilbert  suddenly  rose  from  his  chair  and, 
not  knowing  what  to  do,  went  to  the  open  piano,  and  began  to 
play.  Beatrice  put  down  her  work,  and  listened,  and  then  said 
with  ironical  gravity — 

"  Who  taught  you  music,  Gilbert?  " 

"  So  you  do  not  like  my  playing  !  "  he  said,  coming  back  to 
her. 

Beatrice  was  too  quick  not  to  see  that  he  was  annoyed. 

"  That  was  not  a  good  specimen,"  she  replied. 

Gilbert  raised  his  eyes  to  hers  with  involuntary  reproach, 
and  said — 

"  What  is  there  about  you  I  do  not  like  ?  " 

There  is  a  slavish  instinct  in  love  which  it  requires  all  wo- 
man's pride  and  all  man's  manliness  to  resist.  Just  then  Gilbert 
felt  a  slave  to  the  very  heart.  Willingly,  but  mentally,  of  course, 
would  he  have  laid  himself  at  Beatrice's  feet,  and  acknowledge 
his  bondage,  and  her  sovereignty.  He  was  violently,  desper- 
ately in  love,  and  he  had  not  known  it  two  hours,  and  she 
whom  he  loved  was  there  before  him,  calm  and  smiling,  un- 
conscious of  his  torment,  and  to  all  seeming  heart  free.  Gil- 
bert longed  to  ask  her  for  that  boon  of  love  which  was  never 
yet  granted  to  mere  prayer,  and  which  is  oftener  conquered  from 
than  bestowed  by  woman's  heart.  But  he  was  master  enough 
of  himself  to  know  that  this  was  no  hour  for  passionate  declara- 
tions and  fond  entreaty  ;  that  needless  submission  might  surprise 
and  startle,  but  would  surely  not  win  a  proud  girl  like  Beatrice. 
So  answering  her  puzzled  look,  he  said  with  a  tender  and  yet 
manly  frankness,  which  was  his  wisest  course,  as  it  was  his  best 
chance — 

"  Beatrice,  do  understand  once  for  all  that  I  want  to  please 
you." 


BEATRICE.  206 

"  Even  with  your  music,"  said  Beatrice  gaily  ;  but  she  was 
moved,  and  Gilbert  saw  it. 

The  knowledge  confirmed  him  in  his  resolve,  he  would  seek  to 
win  her  love,  but  he  would  not  speak  until  it  was  won ;  if  he 
failed  he  would  leave  her  in  silence,  her  friend,  but  not  her  re- 
jected lover. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  divide  us  but  the  difference  of  money," 
he  thought,  looking  at  her  again  ;  "  and  who  that  sees  Beatrice 
will  think  for  a  moment  a  man  could  marry  her  for  that  ?  If  she 
were  a  beggar-girl,  she  would  be  bright,  genial,  and  charming 
still.  Oh !  Beatrice,  Beatrice,  I  trust  you  will  not  be  too  hard 
to  win ! " 

He  looked  at  her  eagerly.  He  longed  to  pierce  the  mystery 
of  that  smiling  face,  and  get  to  the  hidden  heart.  But  Beatrice, 
who  had  seemed  so  easy  a  book  to  read  until  he  loved,  was  now 
inscrutable  as  any  Egyptian  mystery.  Yet  he  felt  in  no  hurry. 
The  heart  is  so.  It  likes  pursuit  almost  better  than  achievement. 

Beatrice  was  too  inexperienced  to  understand  Gilbert's  al- 
tered manner,  or  to  guess  the  secret  of  his  submission.  She  only 
^  saw  that  he  did  his  best  to  please  her,  and  she  tried  her  power 
by  pretty  acts  of  despotism.  Gilbert,  once  so  great  a  rebel,  now 
proved  a  most  loyal  subject.  Poor  Beatrice,  she  little  knew 
^  what  pledges  she  was  giving  to  the  silent  lover  every  time  she 
■-  tormented  the  friend  on  that  long,  lonely  evening,  while  Mrs. 
Gervoise  lay  dozing  on  the  sofa,  and  Mr.  Gervoise  considerately 
remained  in  his  study. 

He  made  up  for  his  abstinence  by  questioning  his  wife  when 
he  was  once  more  alone  with  her. 

"  Mrs.  Gervoise,"  he  said  cheerfully,  "  how  is  this  matter  go- 
ing on  ?  " 

"  I — I  don't  know,"  faltered  Mrs.  Gervoise. 

Mr.  Gervoise  frowned. 

"  Did  nothing  new  take  place  this  evening?" 

"  No." 

"  Mrs.  Gervoise,  you  were  asleep." 

"  No,  indeed,  Mr.  Gervoise,  but  I  believe  they  thought  I  was." 

Mr.  Gervoise's  eyes  sparkled. 

"  Very  clever — quite  right.     Well !  " 

He  looked  interrogative,  and  Mrs.  Gervoise  blank. 

"  Nothing  !  "  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  much  displeased.  "  Gilbert 
did  not  praise,  or  admire  her,  or  sit  by  her,  or  squeeze  her  hand  !  " 

"No,"  replied  Mrs.  Gervoise,  reddening  with  displeasure, 
"  Gilbert  is  incapable  of  it." 


206  BEATEICE. 

"  Gilbert  is  a  fool,  ma'am,"  tartly  answered  Mr.  Gervoise. 

He  said  no  more,  but  as  Gilbert  was  evidently  too  delicate, 
or  too  conscientious,  or  too  proud  to  help  himself  in  a  hiirry  to 
this  great  Beatrice  Gordon  and  Carnoosie  prize,  his  father  con- 
siderately resolved  to  assist  him.  He  would  not  go  to  Beatrice, 
Mr.  Gervoise  would  make  Beatrice  go  to  him. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

When  Beatrice  entered  her  mother's  room,  the  next  morning, 
she  found  Mrs.  Gervoise  in  tears. 

"  Darling,  what  is  the  matter  !  "  she  cried. 

"  Mr.  Gervoise  is  going,"  replied  Mrs.  Gervoise. 

The  light  that  rose  to  Beatrice's  eyes  showed  very  little  sym- 
pathy with  this  portion  of  her  mother's  grief. 

"  Well,  darling,"  she  said,  '^  cannot  you  bear  his  absence?" 

"Oh  I  but  those  Stones  are  coming  to  Antony's  cottage,  and 
they  will  call,  and  I  must  see  them." 

She  spoke  piteously.  She  had  been  kept  so  long  in  utter 
solitude,  that  the  thought  of  seeing  a  stranger  now  frightened 
her.  Moreover,  Mr.  Gervoise  had  added  to  this  information 
another,  that  sounded  like  a  threat. 

"  Mrs.  Gervoise,"  he  had  said,  "  I  had  better  find  them  en- 
gaged when  I  come  back." 

This  of  course  Mrs.  Gervoise  could  not  tell  Beatrice. 

"  Never  mind,  darling,"  cheerfully  said  her  daughter,  "  you 
surely  know  Mr.  Gervoise  better  than  to  believe  a  word  he  says." 

"  Miss  Gordon,  you  amaze  me  !  " 

The  words  were  uttered  by  Mr.  Gervoise,  who  entered  the 
room  unheard. 

"  You  amaze  me  !  "  he  resumed.  "  Am  I  to  understand  you 
doubt  Mr.  Stone's  coming  ?     Perhaps  you  doubt  his  existence  ?  " 

Beatrice  smiled,  but  did  no ti  reply. 

"  Mr.  Stone  does  exist,"  resumed  Mr.  Gervoise,  "  and  he  is 
coming ;  and  what  is  more,  I  expect  him  to  be  courteously  re- 
ceived by  you." 

"  Oh  !  I  shall  not  see  him." 

*'  Miss  Gordon  !  " 

"  No,  I  will  be  uncourteous  to  none  in  my  own  house  ;  and 
therefore  I  will  not  see  Mr.  Stone.  You  see,  Mr.  Gervoise,  you 
have  kept  me  out  of  all  society  for  the  last  eleven  years.  I  have 
grown  up  a  sort  of  civilized  Pariah,  and  now  I  will  not  see  com- 


208  BEATRICE. 

4 

pany  at  your  bidding.  When  I  am  of  age  there  will  be  a  chance 
of  course,  and  this  house  shall  not  remain  inhospitably  closed. 
Until  then  1  keep  myself  free." 

In  speaking  thus,  Beatrice  spoke  the  truth,  but  not  the  whole 
truth.  She  was  sure  that  in  drawing  Mr.  Stone  to  the  house, 
Mr.  Gervoise  must  have  a  bad  or  a  sinister  motive,  and  she  would 
not  abet  him  by  consenting  to  see  this  stranger. 

"  Miss  Gordon,"  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  in  that  austere  tone 
which  he  assumed  to  reprimand  the  young  rebel,  "I  have  some- 
thing else  to  say  to  you  before  I  leave  Carnoosie.  I  have  been 
watching  you,  and  I  bid  you  beware.  I  will  not  allow  you  to 
trifle  with  my  elder  son's  affections,  as  you  have  trifled  with 
Antony's." 

Beatrice  looked  petrified. 

"  Gilbert  is  mad,"  composedly  resumed  Mr.  Gervoise.  "  I 
blame  him,  but  I  also  pity  him,  and  I  beg  that  you  will  give  up 
your  indecorous  pastime.  If  it  were  not  that  I  wish  him  to  re- 
main with  Mrs.  Gervoise  whilst  I  am  away,  he  should  leave  us 
at  once.  As  it  is,  I  trust.  Miss  Gordon,  that  you  will  speedily 
bring  him  to  his  senses,  and  not  lead  him  further  into  folly.  ,  I 
wish  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Gervoise  ;  I  shall  trouble  you  to  leave  me 
alone  with  my  wife,  Miss  Gordon." 

When  Mr.  Gervoise  wished  to  exasperate  Beatrice,  he  called 
her  mother  his  wife.  Her  dark  eyes  lit,  her  cheeks  flushed,  her 
lip  trembled,  as  turning  toward  the  door,  she  said : 

"  Mr.  Gervoise,  I  do  not  believe  you." 

Nor  did  she  at  first.  Had  Mr.  Gervoise  said  that  black  was 
black,  Beatrice  would  have  vowed  that  black  was  white.  Gil- 
bert mad,  and  about  her  !  No  ;  it  was  impossible  ;  and  yet  if 
it  were  true  ?  If  it  were  true,  how  would  you  feel,  Beatrice  ? 
She  did  not  ask  herself  the  question — perhaps  she  would  not, 
perhaps  she  dared  not.  The  proud,  the  calm  Gilbert  mad  about 
her !     Her  whole  mind  felt  in  a  strange  tumult  at  the  thought. 

They  met  at  breakfast.  She  watched  him,  and  Mr.  Gervoise 
watched  her  ;  but  whereas  the  calmness  of  Gilbert's  manner  per- 
plexed her,  Mr.  Gervoise  was  at  no  loss  to  read  the  meaning  of 
her  keen,  attentive  looks.  "  If  he  will  not  speak,  she  will  make 
him,"  he  shrewdly  concluded.     "  Caught,  my  lady — caught !  " 

It  so  happened  that  a  chemical  experiment,  and  not  love,  was 
Gilbert's  prevailing  thought  that  morning.  As  soon  as  break- 
fast was  over,  he  rose  and  went  to  the  laboratory.  Beatrice 
usually  joined  him  there,  and  she  would  not  give  up  the  habit 
this  morning,  and  afford  Mr.  Gervoise  that  triumph.     So  she 


BEATEICE.  209 

went  and  looked  on  silently.  Gilbert  was  absorbed  in  his  task, 
and  did  not  speak  to  her  once.  "  Mr.  Gervoise  has  been  invent- 
ing, as  usual,"  thought  Beatrice.  "  I  wonder  he  does  not  get 
tired  of  trying  that  with  me.  And  yet  if  it  were  true,"  said  the 
secret  voice  again.  "It  is  not,"  indignantly  answered  Beatrice 
— "  it  is  not  true." 

Even  as  she  came  to  this  conclusion,  the  door  of  the  library 
abruptly  opened,  and  Mrs.  Gervoise  looked  in  with  a  startled 
look. 

"  Gilbert — quick  ! — come  ! "  she  cried.  "  Mr.  Gervoise  is 
in  a  fit !  " 

Gilbert  threw  down  the  vase  he  held,  passed  by  Beatrice 
without  a  word,  and  rushed  into  the  dining-room.  His  father 
was  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  with  his  face  of  a  dangerous  pur- 
ple hue.  Beatrice,  who  had  followed  him  hastily,  saw  that  Mr. 
Gervoise's  left  hand  grasped  an  open  letter.  "  I  suppose  he  has 
lost  some  of  his  precious  money  ! "  she  thought,  with  great  scorn, 
whilst  Gilbert  hastily  opened  his  father's  necktie. 

"  Bleed  me,"  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  hoarsely. 

"  No,"  decisively  replied  his  son  ;  "do  not  be  alarmed — it  is 
nothing." 

Even  as  he  spoke,  Mr.  Gervoise's  complexion  gradually  re- 
sumed its  natural  hue.  Gilbert  was  right  enough,  the  emotion 
which  had  given  Mr.  Gervoise  so  great  a  shock  was  not  destined 
to  produce  any  fatal  result.  His  composure  slowly  returned,  he 
sat  up  in  his  chair,  methodically  folded  the  letter,  put  it  up  in 
his  pocket,  and  gave  Beatrice,  who  stood  looking  on  coldly,  a 
wary  look,  whilst  he  said : 

"  I  believe  you  are  right,  my  dear  boy  ;  there  is  nothing  the 
matter  with  me.  But  I  felt  terribly  ill  for  a  while.  I  really 
thought  my  enemy  apoplexy  had  got  hold  of  me.  You  will  not 
go  to-day,  however,  will  you  ?  " 

"  Gilbert  is  staying  at  Carnoosie,"  put  in  Beatrice,  "  why 
should  he  go  away  to-day  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  why,  indeed !  "  slowly  replied  Mr.  Gervoise  ;  but  his 
manner  was  absent  and  strange. 

"  He  must  have  lost  a  great  deal  of  money,"  thought  Bea- 
trice. 

"  I  think  I  shall  go  to  bed  and  keep  quiet,"  said  Mr.  Ger- 
voise. "  Perhaps,  too,  I  had  better  send  for  Doctor  Rogerson  ; 
he  knows  my  constitution,  you  know." 

Gilbert  made  a  sign  of  assent,  and  assisted  his  father  up- 
stairs. 


210  BEATKICE. 

Beatrice  remained  alone  with  her  mother,  and  at  once  ques- 
tioned her. 

"What  is  all  this  about,  darling?"  she  asked.  "How  did 
that  fit  come  on  ?  " 

"  When  he  read  the  letter,"  replied  Mrs.  Gervoise,  still  look- 
ing bewildered  and  frightened  ;  "I  thought  he  was  dying." 

"  Do  you  know  what  was  in  the  letter? " 

"  No  ;  he  did  not  tell  me." 

"  Do  you  think  these  Stones  were  in  it  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  Beatrice,  I  do  not  know." 

Beatrice  remained  standing  absorbed  in  thought,  until  Gril- 
bert  came  down  with  a  message  from  his  father,  summoning 
Mrs.  Gervoise  up-stairs.  She  meekly  obeyed,  and  at  once  Bea- 
trice questioned  Gilbert. 

"  There  is  nothing  really  the  matter  with  Mr.  Gervoise,  is 
there?"  she  asked. 

"  No  ;  but  he  has  received  a  great  shock — the  death  of  an 
old  friend." 

*  "  Poor  Gilbert,  how  he  believes  it  all,"  thought  Beatrice ; 
"  I  wonder  what  he  would  think  if  he  knew  what  his  father  told 
me  an  hour  ago." 

But  though  Beatrice  resumed  that  process  of  observation,  in 
which  she  certainly  took  strong  interest,  she  discovered  nothing 
that  day  or  the  next.  Mr.  Gervoise  required  his  son  and  his 
wife  to  be  almost  constantly  with  him,  and  Beatrice  was  left  to 
her  solitary  meditations.  Mr.  Gervoise's  grief  for  the  death  of 
his  friend  proved  greater  than  she  had  expected.  It  made  him 
lose  flesh  and  colour,  and,  more  wonderful  still,  it  took  away  his 
appetite.  When  he  left  his  room  on  the  third  day,  he  went 
about  the  house  with  a  long  face  and  most  dismal  looks.  "  Some- 
thing has  happened,"  thought  Beatrice,  "  and  the  Stones  are  in  it, 
I  am  sure."  She  uttered  their  name  in  his  hearing,  just  to  try  how 
he  would  take  it.  Mr.  Gervoise's  countenance  remained  un- 
moved, but  Beatrcie  detected  a  furtive  look,  which  he  cast  tow- 
ard her — a  look  that  defied  detection.     - 

"  There  is  no  fathoming  that  man,"  thought  Beatrice  ;  and 
she  almost  thought,  too,  that  Gilbert  was  as  unfathomable  as  his 
father. 

Mr.  Gervoise  perplexed  her  still  more  the  next  morning. 
He  was  bright,  cheerful,  and  all  eagerness  to  go  on  his  deferred 
journey.  Beatrice  ascertained  that  he  had  received  a  letter  by 
the  first  post,  and  she  conjectured  that  it  held  either  very  good 
or  very  bad  news.     Either  Mr.  Gervoise  had  got  his  money 


BEATRICE.  ^       211 

back,  if  his  was  a  money  loss,  or  he  was  bracing  himself  up  for 
an  impending  battle. 

"  Grod  help  those  against  whom  he  is  going  to  fight,"  she 
thought  as  she  saw  him  enter  the  carriage  briskly  and  heard  it 
drive  away. 

And  now  that  Mr.  Gervoise  was  gone,  and  his  concerns, 
such  as  they  were,  no  longer  occupied  Beatrice's  mind,  her 
thoughts  went  back  to  Gilbert.  Do  what  she  would,  Mr.  Ger- 
voise's  assertions  had  been  gradually  gaining  ground.  Gilbert 
was  altered,  and  his  change  must  have  some  foundation. 

"  I  will  watch  him  now,  and  I  will  see  and  know,"  thought 
Beatrice  ;  "  I  will  not  be  haunted  by  that  doubt.  But,  first  of 
all,  I  must  think." 

Thought  is  not  always  calm.  With  Beatrice  it  now  required 
active  motion.  She  walked  fast  down  the  terrace,  past  the 
house,  past  the  flower-garden,  till  she  reached  the  grounds  and 
her  favourite  avenue. 

Nature  and  spring  had  clothed  with  exquisite  green  both 
earth  and  trees,  sunlight  and  shadow  vied  on  the  grass,  the  soft 
westerly  wind  came  in  Beatrice's  face  and  blew  back  the  hair 
from  her  flushed  cheeks,  but  did  not  cool  their  fever.  Her  blood 
was  warm  and  young,  and  it  took  little  to  rouse  it.  The  unnat- 
ural seclusion  in  which  her  youth  was  spent  could  not  silence  a 
heart  both  free  and  ardent.  Antony's  passion  had  alternately 
amused  and  provoked  her.  It  was  puerile  and  slavish,  it  neither 
ennobled  the  giver  nor  honoured  the  receiver ;  but  not  so  could 
feel  the  woman  whom  Gilbert  loved.  She  might  not  return  his 
feelings,  but  she  could  not  think  little  either  of  the  love  or  of  the 
lover. 

"  No,  it  cannot  be,"  thought  Beatrice,  stopping  short  in  the 
avenue,  "  Gilbert  is  too  cold,  too  calm,  too  much  his  own  mas- 
ter ever  to  love  a  woman.  His  father  would  like  him  to  have 
Carnoosie,  but  will  find  no  accomplice  in  a  proud  and  noble  na- 
ture like  Gilbert's." 

Even  as  Beatrice  came  to  this  conclusion,  Gilbert  stepped 
from  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  trees  and  stood  before  her. 
Beatrice  gave  him  a  startled  yet  searching  look,  but  there  was 
nothing  of  a  lover's  eager  joy  in  his  face  on  beholding  her. 
"  It  cannot  be,"  she  thought ;  "  and  yet  if  it  were." 
Gilbert  made  a  cool  commonplace  remark  about  the  beauty 
of  the  morning,  that  roused  her  to  her  secret  purpose. 

We  all  have  some  of  the  despot  and  the  tyrant  in  us,  we  all 
like  to  feel  how  far  extends  our  power  to  torment  or  to  bless. 


212  BEATEICE. 

Beatrice  was  an  autocrat  of  nature.  Years  of  bitter  servitude 
had  not  conquered  her  yet,  and  never  would.  Gilbert  had  tried 
her  keenly  and  sorely ;  it  would  be  strange  if  her  turn  had  come 
now.  The  temptation  was  too  sudden  and  too  exquisite  to  be 
resisted. 

There  is  a  secret  power  of  deceiving  which  is  innate  in  a 
girl's  heart ;  experience  is  not  needed  to  strengthen,  nor  habit  to 
guide  it.  It  comes  at  her  bidding  and  flows  perfect  from  her 
lips,  armed  cap-a-pie  like  Minerva  from  the  brain  of  Jove.  That 
power  Beatrice  at  once  possessed  and  wielded.  VeiHng  the  mis- 
chievous light  in  her  eyes  with  drooping  lids,  and  controlling  the 
smile  which  played  around  her  rosy  lips,  she  said  with  demure 
gravity: 

"  Gilbert,  I  have  something  to  say  to  you.  I  mean  some- 
thing about  which  I  wish  to  consult  you." 

"Indeed!" 

"  Yes,  come  this  way." 

She  confidentially  passed  her  arm  within  his  and  led  him 
down  the  avenue. 

"  What  is  it?  "  asked  Gilbert. 

Beatrice  blushed  under  his  keen  look,  but  he  might  read  the 
blush  differently. 

At  length  she  gathered  courage,  and  her  very  hesitation  gave 
her  words  more  force. 

"  Gilbert,  answer  me  frankly.     Promise  you  will." 

"  Well,  suppose  I  do." 

"  Well  then,  Gilbert,  would  you  advise  me  to  marry  your 
brother  Antony  ?  " 

She  suddenly  raised  her  eyes  to  his  face  ;  but  she  did  not 
need  its  language.  The  arm  on  which  hers  rested  had  shivered 
as  if  it  had  received  an  electric  shock,  and,  pale  as  death,  Gilbert 
heard  her  and  did  not  reply.  Had  she  liked  him  less  she  would 
have  been  safe  from  self-betrayal,  but  she  could  not  bear  the 
sight  of  his  despair,  and  all  presence  of  mind  forsook  her. 

"  Gilbert,"  she  cried,  shocked  and  frightened,  "  do  not  mind 
me — I  do  not  mean  it — I  am  jesting — I  would  die  rather  than 
marry  Antony." 

The  red  blood  rushed  back  to  Gilbert's  pale  face.  So  she 
was  jestiog,  and  that  was  the  meaning  of  Beatrice's  jest.  He 
bit  his  lip  and  was  silent.  He  did  not  withdraw  his  arm  from 
Beatrice's,  but  he  looked  down  at  her  with  such  sad  and  severe 
reproach,  that  her  lids  fell,  and  she  turned  her  head  away. 

"  Beatrice,  why  did  you  do  this  ?  "  he  asked. 


BEATRICE.  213 

"  I — I  don't  know,"  she  faltered. 

"Yes,  you  do,  Beatrice.  Well,  are  you  satisfied?  Wliat 
have  you  gained  ?  " 

Beatrice  hung  her  head,  and  felt  both  penitent  and  ashamed. 

"  And  now  that  you  know  what  you  have  wished  to  know, 
Beatrice,  but  what  I  was  scarcely  willing  to  tell  you — what  is 
your  answer  ?  " 

Beatrice  was  mute.     Gilbert  resumed  very  calmly, 

"  When  a  woman  compels  a  man  to  betray  himself,  she  also 
compels  herself  to  give  him  a  plain  yea  or  nay.  That  is  but 
fair  ;  is  it  not,  Beatrice  ?  " 

Still  he  looked  at  her,  and  still  Beatrice  kept  her  face  averted 
from  a  look  too  justly  reproachful  to  be  very  pleasant  to  bear. 

"  Gilbert,"  she  said  at  length,  "  it  is  very  kind  of  you  to  care 
about  me,  but "  she  paused. 

"  But  you  cannot  care  about  me  in  that  way,"  he  suggested. 

Beatrice's  silence  meant  assent. 
,    "  Well,  then,  Beatrice,  with  what  object  did  you  put  me  to 
this  trial?" 

"  Gilbert,  do  not  be  too  severe." 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  your  object  was,"  pursued  Gilbert,  in 
a  tone  of  deep  sorrow  :  "  pastime  for  yourself,  a  keen  pang  for 
me,  and  to  see  how  I  would  bear  it.  You  broke  your  watch 
when  you  were  a  child  to  see  how  it  was  made  inside  ;  and  feel- 
ing inquisitive,  I  suppose,  about  Gilbert's  machinery,  you  scared 
him  out  of  his  presence  of  mind  and  self-control,  and  now  you 
laugh  at  him  for  his  pains." 

Beatrice's  tears  flowed. 

"  Gilbert,  forgive  me  ! "  she  entreated. 

"A  hundred  times,"  he  said,  sadly  smiling;  "but  I  go  to- 
day, Beatrice." 

He  took  his  arm  from  hers  as  he  spoke.  Beatrice  clung  to 
him  weeping,  penitent  and  frightened. 

"  Do  not  go,"  she  entreated  ;  "  do  not  go,  Gilbert." 

But  in  vain  she  looked  up  at  him ;  Gilbert  smiled  down  at 
her  ;  with  gentle  hand  he  wiped  the  tears  from  her  face,  and  bade 
her  not  fret ;  but  his  smile  was  that  of  a  man  deeply  hurt  and 
deeply  injured,  and  most  inexorably  did  he  refuse  to  stay. 

"  Oh  !  you  do  not  care  about  me,"  impatiently  said  Beatrice, 
"  or  you  would  stay  and  try,  Gilbert." 

Stay  and  try !  He  the  poor  man  stay  and  try  to  win  the 
rich  girl's  favour  !  But  love ,  which  has  humbled  many  a  haughty 
heart,  now  conquered  Gilbert  Gervoise's  pride. 


214  BEATRICE. 

"Do  you  wish  me  to  stay  and  try,  Beatrice?"  he  asked  in 
an  altered  tone. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  a  little  faintly,  for  the  implied  promise 
frightened  her. 

»  Then  I  wiU." 

His  brow  cleared,  his  look  was  hopeful  and  open.  In  a. 
moment  Gilbert  was  another  man.  Half-shyly,  half-triumph- 
antly,  Beatrice  watched  the  change.  Three  words  from  her  had 
done  this.  And  this  was  the  same  Gilbert,  who  not  a  month 
back  had  humbled  and  repelled  her.  He  was  at  her  mercy  now, 
the  slave  of  a  look,  the  servant  of  a  smile.  Proud  as  he  was, 
she  could  hold  his  heart  in  her  hand,  and  humble  or  exalt  it  at 
her  pleasure.  Sweet  and  truly  royal  privilege  of  youth  and 
beauty. 

"Thank  you  Gilbert,"  she  said  gently  ;  "  it  is  kind  of  you  to 
forgive  me." 

"  She  already  wants  to  slip  out  of  her  promise,"  thought  Gil- 
bert.    "  Oh  !  Beatrice,  you  are  a  true  woman  !  " 

And  he  half  sighed  at  his  bondage.  But  Beatrice's  spirits  rose 
quickly,  and  she  frisked  by  his  side,  lively  as  a  young  kid.  Gil- 
bert looked  at  her  doubtfully. 

"  She  does  not  love,  she  never  will  love  me,"  he  thought. 
"  I  am  mad  to  stay  here  near  her." 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

"  Stay  and  try"  she  had  said.  What  lover  but  would  have 
obeyed  her  bidding?  Gilbert  did  stay,  but  hard  indeed  was  the 
trial  to  which  Beatrice  put  him.  She  probed  him  to  the  quick, 
not  to  give  him  pain,  but  through  a  restless  and  wayward  cu- 
riosity that  tormented  him,  and  did  not  make  her  happy.  Gil- 
bert thought  that  he  could  see  what  passed  in  her  mind — she  was 
doing  her  best  to  like  him,  and  she  could  not  succeed.  To  this 
kind  and  fruitless  endeavour  he  attributed  the  hundred  little 
caprices  which  now  gave  variety  to  their  daily  life.  As  she  was 
now,  Beatrice  had  never  been  before.  She  could  not  stay  five 
minutes  at  peace  with  Gilbert.  She  either  found  fault  with  him, 
or  did  her  best  to  make  him  find  fault  with  her  ;  and  yet  when 
sad  and  wearied  he  left  her,  she  either  called  him  despotically 
back,  or  silently  resented  his  departure.  The  premature  discov- 
ery she  had  made  recoiled  upon  her  as  a  punishment.  She  had 
broken  that  charm  of  silence  which  had  given  her  happy  uncon- 
sciousness, and  Gilbert  calm  security.  She  could  not  forget  that 
Gilbert  was  no  longer  a  friend,  but  a  lover,  and  Gilbert  could 
not  forget  that  she  had  rudely  unveiled  his  secret,  and  made  a 
jest  of  his  pain.  His  had  been  no  love  confession  poured  forth 
with  the  heart's  fervor  and  eloquence  at  the  feet  of  an  adored 
mistress.  And  indeed  that  language  of  love  which  Beatrice 
perhaps  would  have  liked  to  hear,  could  not  be  spoken  by  him. 
The  knowledge  of  her  indifference  froze  it  on  his  lips.  At  length, 
after  one  of  their  half-quarrels,  for  they  never  quarrelled  outright, 
Gilbert  felt  that  his  patience  was  exhausted,  and  at  dinner  he 
said  to  Mrs.  Gervoise  : 

''  I  am  going  to  London  .this  evening.  Can  I  do  any  thing 
for  you  there?" 

"  No — no,  thank  you,"  faltered  Mrs.  Gervoise.  much  dis- 
turbed. 

Beatrice  had  told  her  nothing.  She  never  told  her  mother 
what  she  did  not  wish  her  step-father  to  know ;  but  Mrs.  Ger- 


216  BEATRICE. 

voise  was  terrified  to  think  of  her  husband's  anger  if  he  found 
Gilbert  gone  on  his  return. 

"  Gilbert,  stay  with  us  until  your  father  comes  back,"  she 
entreated. 

"  I  am  truly  sorry  to  refuse  you,  but  I  must  go  to-night." 

Beatrice  said  nothing,  but  she  turned  pale,  and  pushing  her 
plate  away,  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  looked  at  Gilbert,  who 
studiously  avoided  looking  at  her.  When  dinner  was  over  Gil- 
bert rose,  and  Beatrice  rose  too.  He  saw  well  enough  that  she 
wanted  to  speak  to  him,  and  though  he  had  little  wish  for  what 
was  coming,  he  neither  would  nor  could  avoid  it.  Mrs.  Gervoise, 
who  guessed  what  Beatrice  intended,  and  asked  no  better  than 
to  give  her  an  opportunity,  stayed  within,  whilst  they  went  out 
on  the  terrace. 

The  evening  was  very  calm  and  very  beautiful.  Fire  and 
gold  shone  on  the  red  front  and  the  glittering  windows  of  old 
Carnoosie,  and  there  was  a  glow  on  earth  and  trees  and  sky  that 
would  at  another  time  have  filled  Beatrice's  heart  with  rapture. 
Now  she  had  but  one  thought — she  was  going  to  lose  Gilbert, 
and,  she  felt,  to  lose  him  for  ever. 

"  Gilbert,  you  must  not  go,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  Beatrice,  I  must." 

The  terrace  was  broad,  and  walking  up  and  down,  as  they 
did  now,  near  the  balustrade,  they  could  speak  and  not  be  heard 
within. 

"  No,  Gilbert,  you  must  not,"  again  said  Beatrice.  "  I 
cannot  spare  you — I  should  be  too  unhappy.  Mine  has  not  been 
a  happy  youth.  The  last  few  weeks  that  brought  you  here  have 
changed  it  in  one  respect.  I  have  lived — ^before  I  longed  to  live. 
Gilbert,  if  I  cannot  like  you  exactly  as  you  wish,  I  am  not  to 
blame,  but  I  love  you  very  dearly.  Do  not  go,  dear  Gilbert,  let 
there  at  least  be  friendship  between  us." 

But  the  word  friendship  roused  Gilbert  from  all  self-control. 

"  Do  not  talk  of  friendship  between  us,"  he  said,  "  unless  you 
can  make  up  a  friendship  of  all  the  love  there  is  on  my  side,  and 
all  the  coldness  there  is  on  yours  ! " 

"  Gilbert,"  said  Beatrice,  desperately,  ••'  I  will  do  much — 
more  than  you  ask — I  will  marry  you,  if  you  wish  it,  and  trust 
to  time  for  the  rest ! " 

Gilbert  looked  hard  at  her,  then  sighed  deeply. 

"  No,  Beatrice,"  he  replied,  at  length,  "  it  is  good  and  kind 
of  you  to  make  such  an  offer,  but  I  would  not  have  a  queen  on 
those  terms  ;  besides,  you  little  imagine  the  torment  such  a  union 


BEATRICE.  217 

would  be  to  both  of  us.  You  would  be  a  rebel  every  hour  of 
your  life,  and  I  should  hate  as  death  to  feel  myself  your  master. 
Believe  me,  Beatrice,  I  speak  not  in  anger,  but  in  much  sorrow  ; 
there  is  but  one  wisdom  for  us,  and  that  is  to  part.  You  give 
me  friendship,  and  I  want  love.  How  can  we  but  jar  when  either 
is  ever  desiring  what  the  other  cannot  bestow.  Beatrice,  even 
though  I  should  pain  you,  I  must  tell  you  the  truth — I  do  not 
feel  one  atom  of  friendship  for  you.  From  the  first  moment  I 
saw  you  I  felt  that  you  were  dangerous.  Remember  how  I 
received  your  affection  !  I  could  not  help  it,  Beatrice.  It  was 
self-defence — ^harsh,  but  needful.  I  do  not  know  how  far  friend- 
ship is  advisable  or  wise  between  a  man  of  my  age  and  a  girl  of 
yours,  but  I  know  that  between  us  it  is  impossible." 

Gilbert  spoke  with  a  suppressed  passion  which  silenced  Bea- 
trice. These  were  arguments  she  could  not  refute  ;  but  her  pain 
on  hearing  him  was  so  keen  that  she  turned  her  head  away,  so 
that  he  might  not  see  her  tears.  He  saw  them,  however ;  his 
very  heart  was  stirred,  and  his  resolve  melted  away. 

"  Beatrice,  what  shall  I  do?"  he  asked,  irresolutely. 

"  Stay  !"  she  quickly  said. 

Gilbert  sighed ;  it  was  the  old  story,  but  this  time  it  was 
"  stay,"  and  not  "  stay  and  try." 

Beatrice  probably  thought  that  she  had  vexed  or  wearied 
Gilbert  by  her  capricefe,for  her  manner  to  him  altered  completely 
after  this  evening.  It  became  gentle,  and  almost  submissive ; 
the  fear  of  giving  offence  ruled  her  every  word  and  look.  Gil- 
bert saw  it,  and  felt  exasperated.  A  hundred  times  he  ridiculed 
his  folly  in  yielding  to  Beatrice's  tears  what  his  ^mer  will  had 
refused  to  her  entreaties.  What  was  he  doing  in  Carnoosie, 
ne£|,r  a  girl  who  only  wanted  from  him  a  feeling  he  could  never 
give  her,  and  who  was  unable  to  give  him  the  passionate  fond- 
ness he  vainly  longed  for.  Her  submissive  gentleness  was  irri- 
tating ;  her  caprices  would  have  been  more  endurable  by  far,  for 
they  would  have  left  hope,  which  this  destroyed.  Love  is  rarely 
just.  It  is  a  passion,  and,  like  all  passions,  it  leads  the  very 
soul  and  heart  of  man  away  from  truth.  Gilbert  could  not  be 
fair  to  Beatrice ;  he  felt  it,  he  controlled  his  temper,  and  sup- 
pressed all  outward  mark  of  irritation,  but  his  inward  heart  he 
could  not  rule. 

At  length  Beatrice  guessed,  or  seemed  to  guess,  what  was 
passing  within  him ;  a  marked  change  came  over  her,  and  her 
manner  became  so  cold  and  shy  that  her  mother  remonstrated, 
but  vainly. 

10 


218  BEATRICE. 

Several  days  had  passed  thus.  Gilbert  was  in  the  library 
reading,  and  Beatrice  was  in  her  room,  when  her  mother  entered 
it  with  a  frightened  look. 

"Darling,  what  is  the  matter?"  cried  Beatrice,  rising  in 
alarm. 

"  My  dear,  has  Gilbert  said  any  thing  to  you?" 

"  Any  thing  about  what?"  said  Beatrice,  reddening. 

"  Any  thing  about  his  going? " 

"  No,"  said  Beatrice,  faintly,  and  the  blood  rushing  back  to 
her  heart. 

"  But  he  is  going,"  said  Mrs.  Gervoise,  aU  her  terror  of  her 
husband's  displeasure  fuU  upon  her.  "  I  was  passing  by  his 
room  awhile  ago,  and  I  saw  him  packing,  though  he  did  not  see 
me." 

"  Packing ! "  cried  Beatrice  ;  "  do  you  think  so  ?  " 

"I  am  sure  of  it." 

"  Well,  darling,  we  cannot  help  it." 

"  He  must  not  go^  Beatrice.  Indeed,  he  must  not  go  so. 
His  father  will  think  I  have  affronted  him.  Beatrice,  you  must 
keep  him." 

"  I  cannot ;  he  will  not  stay  for  my  asking." 

"  Beatrice,  you  must  try." 

"  Darling,  I  cannot." 

Her  face  was  crimson  once  more,  and  Mrs.  Gervoise  guessed, 
but  would  not  seem  to  guess  the  truth. 

"  For  my  sake,  Beatrice,"  she  pleaded,  "  for  my  sake." 

"Darling,  I  dare  not,"  said  Beatrice,  a  little  vehemently; 
"  I  deserve  all  Gilbert's  anger  and  reproaches — I  dare  not." 

"  Have  you  affronted  him,  then?  " 

"  I  have  not  affronted  him,  but — ^but — I  said  something  this 
morning,  and — and  that  is  why  he  is  going." 

Mrs.  Gervoise  did  not  ask  Beatrice  what  she  had  said ;  it  was 
not  an  affront  assuredly,  but  it  was  a  bitter  speech  for  Gilbert  to 
hear.  Had  the  old  spirit  of  mischievous  curiosity  again  wak- 
ened in  Beatrice,  that,  unsolicited,  unprovoked,  she  had  said  to 
Gilbert,  "  I  am  so  sorry  you  did  not  marry  Mademoiselle  Joanne  ?  " 
But  this  time  Gilbert  was  on  his  guard.  Nothing  in  him  be- 
trayed his  pain,  if  pain  he  felt ;  but  he  was  going,  and  Beatrice 
knew  why,  and,  knowing  it,  did  not  dare  to  detain  him,  and,  by 
making  the  attempt,  draw  down  on  herself  merited  reproaches. 

"  No,  I  dare  not,"  she  said  again  ;  "  besides,  he  may  not  be 
going,  darling." 

"  Come  with  me." 


BEATRICE.  219 

Mechanically  Beatrice  followed  her  mother  to  Gilbert's  door. 
Mrs.  Gervoise  pushed  it  open,  and  showed  her  Gilbert's  trunk 
strapped  and  ready. 

"  I  cannot  help  it,"  said  Beatrice,  turning  away  ;  "  if  he  will 
go,  he  must." 

But  Mrs.  Gervoise  detected  yielding  in  Beatrice's  voice,  and 
urged  her  to  try. 

"  Gilbert  is  in  the  library,"  she  said ;  "go  down  and  ask  him 
to  stay — you  need  do  no  more." 

Beatrice's  colour  came  and  went,  but  she  could  not  resist  her 
mother's  entreating  eyes.  She  left  her,  and  slowly  went  down- 
stairs. On  reaching  the  door  of  the  library,  she  paused  with  her 
hand  on  the  lock.  Beatrice  was  not  timid,  but  for  once  fear 
made  her  tremble — fear  of  Gilbert's  calm  anger,  all  the  more  to 
be  dreaded  that  it  was  richly  deserved.  At  length  she  opened 
the  door,  and  entered  the  room. 

Gilbert  looked  up  from  the  book  he  was  reading,  and  rose 
courteously  on  seeing  the  mistress  of  the  house ;  but  Beatrice 
sank  on  a  chair  near  the  table,  and  motioned  him  to  resume  his 
seat. 

"  Gilbert,"  she  said,  a  little  faintly,  "  are  you  really  going 
away  ?  " 

At  once  Gilbert's  face  became  rigid  and  cold. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  composedly,  "  I  am." 

"  Gilbert,  I  know  I  do  not  deserve  it,  but  oh !  do  stay  this 
once  more." 

"  No,  Beatrice,  spare  me  and  spare  yourself  some  useless 
pain.     Do  not  ask  me  to  stay,  for  nothing  will  make  me  do  so." 

Beatrice  started  to  her  feet ;  pride,  shame,  and  other  feehngs 
struggled  in  her  heart.  Her  cheeks  were  in  a  flame,  and  tears 
filled  her  eyes,  and  trembled  on  her  dark  lashes. 

"  Go,  then,"  she  said,  desperately,  and  turning  to  the  door, 
"  go,  Gilbert,  and  be  blind  to  the  last." 

In  a  moment  Gilbert  was  by  her  side. 

"  You  want  me  to  stay ! "  he  cried,  his  eyes  flashing  with 
triumph  and  joy. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  bravely,  "  and  to  stay  for  ever,  too,  Gil- 
bert." 

And  she  passed  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and  laid  her  cheek 
to  his  with  the  act  of  the  little  Beatrice  of  old  days. 

Gilbert  gently  pushed  her  away,  and  looked  deep  into  her 
eyes. 

"  Beatrice,  what  meant  this  morning's  speech  ?  " 


220  BEATRICE. 

Beatrice  hung  her  head,  and  looked  very  penitent. 

"  I  could  not  help  it,  Gilbert.  I  wanted  to  know  if  you  still 
thought  of  Mademoiselle  Joanne — ^that  was  all,"  she  added,  giving 
him  a  half-doubtful,  half- timid  glance. 

That  was  all !  Gilbert  gave  her  a  look  of  tender  though 
sad  reproach.  His  fate  lay  before  him — a  beautiful,  rich,  and 
wayward  girl,  who  was  fond  of  him,  but  alas  !  who  had  many 
faults.  He  took  her  two  hands,  and  raised  t];iem  to  his  lips  with 
secure  tenderness  in  his  looks.  Such  as  she  was,  he  accepted 
her — such  as  she  was,  he  loved  her. 


CHAPTEE  XXVn. 

If  Mr.  Gervoise  could  have  known  how  his  darling  plan  was 
being  carried  ont  by  the  wilful  girl  who  bore  his  yoke,  even 
whilst  she  struggled  against  it,  he  would  no  doubt  have  felt  a  de- 
gree of  satisfaction  which  his  step-daughter,  soon  to  become  his 
daughter-in-law,  would  wilKngly  have  spared  him.  Every  thing 
had  come  to  pass  as  he  had  planned  it ;  Gilbert  being  put  in  con- 
tact with  Beatrice  had  as  naturally  fallen  in  love  with  her,  as  a 
match  takes  fire  on  being  applied  to  the  candle.  Beatrice,  though 
more  slow,  had  also  acknowledged  her  step-father's  influence. 
Mr.  Gervoise's  views  of  human  nature  were  perhaps  derived 
from  the  secret  machinery  which  sets  the  popular  drama  of 
Punch  in  motion.  He  held  the  majority  of  human  beings  as 
mere  puppets,  and  himself  as  the  wise  showman.  Pull  this 
string,  and  Punch  comes  up ;  pull  that,  and  Judy  goes  down. 
Mr.  Gervoise  had  pulled  the  strings  of  curiosity  and  vanity  in 
Beatrice  ;  and  he  had  trusted  to  her  own  liking  for  Gilbert ;  and 
to  Gilbert's  good  looks,  true  love,  and  opportunities  for  the  rest, 
"  You  see,"  thought  Mr.  Gervoise,  "  Gilbert  is  the  first  young 
man  to  her  liking  that  has  come  in  her  way — so  she  will  have 
him — and  she  shall  have  him  !  " 

Beatrice  was  not  unconscious  that,  in  consenting  to  become 
Gilbert's  wife,  she  was  abetting  Mr.  Gervoise's  scheme,  and  now 
felt  sure  that  he  it  was,  and  for  that  purpose,  who  had  broken 
off  Gilbert's  marriage  with  Mademoiselle  Joanne  ;  but  for  once 
step-father  and  step-daughter  agreed  ;  for  once  Beatrice  could  not 
quarrel  with  the  plotter's  scheme  ;  and  when  she  remembered 
that  he  had  brought  Gilbert  to  Carnoosie  and  thrown  this  great, 
this  exquisite  happiness  in  her  way,  her  heart  so  far  melted 
within  her  that  she  almost  forgave  Mr.  Gervoise  his  other  wrong- 
doings. 

She  was  very  happy.  If  Gilbert  had  felt  any  doubts  con- 
cerning the  nature  of  Beatrice's  affection  for  himself,  they  van- 
ished very  quickly,  for  she  was  not  the  girl  to  hide  what  passed 


222  BEATRICE. 

within  her  heart  from  a  lover's  gaze.  Frank,  impetuous,  im- 
passioned, she  surrendered  herself  to  the  new  feeling  ;  not  indeed 
with  unwomanly  vehemence,  but  with  a  depth  and  a  fervour 
which,  whatever  they  might  prophesy  of  trouble  and  sorrow  for 
the  future,  were  at  least  exquisitely  sweet  for  the  present.  In 
that  present  both  these  lovers  were  now  absorbed.  Mrs.  Ger- 
voise  felt  with  a  sigh  that  she  had  no  need  to  bid  Beatrice  leave 
her  now.  Her  daughter  took  it  as  a  matter  of  course  that  her 
mother  did  not  want  her,  and  Gilbert  took  it  as  a  matter  of 
course  that  he  was  to  have  Beatrice's  society  all  the  day  long. 

He  had  it  as  usual  one  bright  afternoon.  They  sat  in  Mrs. 
Gervoise's  room,  but  she  was  not  with  them.  Beatrice  was  sewing. 
Gilbert's  arm  rested  on  the  back  of  her  chair,  and  he  was  silently 
watching  the  rapid  and  steady  motion  of  her  nimble  little  fingers. 
A  calm  and  luxurious  happiness  filled  his  heart.  Learned  men 
have  quarrelled  about  the  precise  spot  in  which  Eden  once  stood. 
They  need  not.  The  garden  of  Paradise  is  wherever  two  young 
hearts  love  in  honour  and  truth.  The  world  sees  it  nOt,  for  the 
angel's  flaming  sword  dazzles  its  weak  eyes  ;  but  they  who  rove 
at  will  in  its  enchanted  bowers  know  it  well,  and  if  the  world 
laughs  at  them,  they  pity  it  and  love  on. 

The  last  few  days  had  been  very  sweet  to  these  two.  "When 
Gilbert  remembered  Mademoiselle  Joanne  he  shuddered  to  think 
he  might  possibly  have  married  her  ;  and  when  Beatrice  thought 
of  what  her  life  had  been  before  this  great  happiness,  she  won- 
dered that  she  had  existed  at  all.  What  will  you  do,  Beatrice — 
how  will  you  live,  if  it  should  ever  leave  you  as  it  came  ! 

"  Beatrice,"  suddenly  said  Gilbert. 

"Well!" 

*'  When  will  you  marry  me  ?  " 

It  was  the  first  time  he  spoke  of  marriage.  Love  up  to  the 
present  had  been  his  only  theme,  and  Heaven  knows  what  won- 
derful variety  they  had  both  found  in  the  subject ;  but  seeing 
Beatrice  sewing  had  put  domestic  life  into  Gilbert's  head ;  be- 
sides, long  engagements  are  foolish  things,  and  true  love  was 
ever  in  a  hurry. 

"  Let  me  see,"  thoughtfully  said  Beatrice  ;  "*[  shall  soon  be 
of  age — when  I  am  twenty-five  or  so,  Gilbert." 

"  Thank  you  !  " 

"  Oh  !  but  I  am  quite  in  earnest,"  she  composedly  replied  ; 
"  I  know  you  are  of  a  faithless  disposition,  and  I  want  to  give 
you  time  to  change  your  mind." 

"  You  are  too  kind,  Miss  Gordon." 


BEATEICE.  223 

"  See  how  unwelcome  poor  truth  is.     You  are  quite  nettled." 

"  I  nettled !  you  have  been  trying  to  vex  me  for  the  last 
forty-eight  hours.  I  leave  it  to  you  to  say  if  you  have  succeeded 
once." 

"  No,"  she  frankly  answered,  "  you  have  the  most  irritating 
coolness  ;  but  I  have  more  than  one  arrow  in  my  quiver,  Gilbert, 
so  do  not  provoke  me." 

She  turned  her  mischievous  face  toward  him,  but  the  blood 
rushed  to  Gilbert's  heart.  He,  too,  could  jest  and  trifle ;  but 
whilst  Beatrice  could  spend  a  whole  day  in  the  pastime,  he  could 
not  bear  it  for  more  than  a  few  minutes.  Quickly  came  other 
feelings,  feelings  which  he  hid  from  Beatrice,  partly  through 
pride,  partly  because  he  felt  that  she  could  never  share  them. 
Calm  as  he  looked,  he  was  by  far  the  more  impassioned  of  the 
two.  He  could  sit  by  her  side  silent  and  happy,  but  it  was  easier 
to  be  silent  than  speaking,  not  to  say  what  he  did  not  wish  his 
lips  to  tell. 

On  seeing  the  change  in  his  face,  Beatrice  threw  down  her 
work  and  said  quickly — 

"Do  not  mind  me,  Gilbert,  I  mean  no  harm,  and  I  will  do 
any  thing  you  wish — marry  you  to-morrow,  it  you  like  it." 

"Will  you,  Beatrice?" 

"  How  dare  you  doubt  my  word  !  " 

But  doubts  Gilbert  probably  had,  for  he  took  her  two  hands 
in  his  and  looked  into  her  face.  Beatrice  reddened  in  his  gaze 
like  a  rosy  flower  in  the  glow  of  the  setting  sun.  He  smiled  at 
her  beauty,  and,  stooping,  bent  toward  her ;  but  in  a  moment 
Beatrice's  hands  were  free,  and  she  stood  before  him,  blushing, 
ashamed,  and  angry. 

"  Gilbert ! — Miss  Gordon  ! "  said  an  austere  voice. 

Gilbert  started  as  if  he  had  been  shot,  and  turned  round.  His 
father  stood  on  the  threshold  of  the  room,  looking  gravely  at  the 
pair. 

"  I  am  surprised,"  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  sitting  down. 

Indeed,  he  looked  not  merely  surprised,  but  annoyed.  Gil- 
bert passed  his  arm  within  Beatrice's,  and  said  with  manly  frank- 
ness— 

"  I  had  your  approbation  before  you  left,  and  now  Beatrice 
and  I  are  pledged." 

"  Oh  !  you  are,  are  you ! "  ironically  replied  Mr.  Gervoise  ; 
"  well,  be  pledgee^,"  he  added  impatiently. 

"  He  looked  worn  and  irritable,  and  careless  too.  Every  thing 
about  him  said,  "  What  is  it  all  to  me  ?  "     It  was  as  if  the  fulfil- 


224  BEATEICE. 

ment  of  the  scheme  that  he  had  worked  for  so  keenly  afforded 
him  no  pleasure,  now  that  it  was  at  hand.  Gilbert  was  amazed 
and  doubtful,  and  even  Beatrice  was  perplexed, 

"  Then  we  have  your  consent?  "  gravely  said  Grilbert. 

Mr.  Gervoise  looked  at  them  both.  They  stood  before  him, 
young,  handsome,  devoted  and  true,  a  loving  pair,  fit  to  walk 
hand  in  hand  along  the  happy  paths  of  life  ;  but  perhaps  he  saw 
dark  shadows  clouding  a  future  that  looked  so  fair,  for  he  smiled 
with  something  like  disdain. 

"  Have  your  way,"  he  replied,  opening  his  hands,  "  have 
your  way."     And  he  rose  and  left  the  room. 

"  He  is  plotting  against  us,"  thought  Beatrice.  Even  Gilbert 
felt  alarmed,  and  locked  at  her  with  mingled  uneasiness  and 
passion. 

"  Beatrice,"  he  said,  "  we  must  get  married  at  once." 

"  What  do  you  fear?  "  asked  Beatrice,  turning  pale. 

"  Every  thing — we  must  get  married  at  once.  Do  not  say  no, 
Beatrice — do  not." 

"  As  you  please,"  she  replied  faintly. 

Gilbert's'  arm  was  still  linked  in  hers  ;  he  withdrew  it,  and 
moved  to  the  door. 

"  Where  are  you  going?"  she  asked. 

"  To  speak  to  my  father  once  more." 

He  left  the  room,  and  Beatrice  sank  down  on  a  chair,  breath- 
less with  emotion.  The  sense  of  a  great  crisis,  of  a  great  calam- 
ity, was  full  upon  her.  Gilbert  was  scarcely  less  disturbed. 
At  once  he  went  in  search  of  his  father,  and  he  found  him  in 
his  study,  taking  a  glass  of  wine  and  a  biscuit.  In  plain  and 
straightforward  language  the  young  man  once  more  asked  Mr. 
Gervoise  for  his  consent. 

"My  consent !  "  blandly  replied  Mr.  Gervoise,  whose  manner 
was  quite  altered,  "  to  be  sure,  my  dear  boy,  to  be  sure."  And 
he  nibbled  at  his  biscuit. 

"  I  should  like  to  get 'married  soon,"  said  Gilbert ;  "  in  a  few 
days." 

Mr.  Gervoise  drained  his  glass,  and  said : 

"Just  so." 

"  Do  you  see  any  objections  to  it?"  asked  Gilbert  uneasily. 

"Of  course  you  marry  Beatrice  for  love?"  was  his  father's 
equivocal  reply. 

Gilbert  reddened. 

"  I  do,"  he  answered  briefly. 

"  Well,  then,  my  dear  boy,  get  married  speedily.     It  will 


BEATEICE.  225 

settle  Beatrice,  who  is  a  restless  girl,  and  it  will  do  you  good  too, 
to  get  the  toy  you  are  longing  for.  What  is  a  pretty  girl  but  a 
a  toy,  after  all  ?  " 

"  I  love  Beatrice  as  a  wife,  not  as  a  mistress,"  rather  indig- 
nantly replied  Gilbert. 

"  Just  so,"  placably  rejoined  Mr.  Gervoise.  "  With  regard 
to  the  ceremony,"  he  added  after  a  pause,  "  I  wish  it  to  take 
place  in  London.  I  think  that  when  it  is  over  you  can  go  and 
spend  your  honeymoon  in  Verville  or  abroad,  or  indeed  any- 
where you  please." 

Gilbert  breathed  relieved.  He  had  feared  some  subtle  and 
specious  objection  ;  but  it  was  impossible  for  love  and  marriage 
to  be  made  more  easy  than  his  father  made  them.  A  certain 
coldness,  a  certain  indifference  in  his  manner  did  indeed  strike 
Gilbert  as  singular,  but  he  dismissed  the  subject  from  his  mind, 
and  said  with  some  eagerness — 

"  I  had  better  go  and  consult  Beatrice." 

"  Ah,  do,"  replied  his  father,  pouring  out  another  glass  of 
wine,  and  stretching  his  hand  toward  the  plate  that  held  the 
biscuits. 

Gilbert  went,  and  after  some  searching  he  found  Beatrice  in 
the  orchard.  She  turned  round  on  hearing  his  step,  and  her 
face  was  as  troubled  as  his  was  secure  and  hopeful.  He  passed 
his  arm  within  hers  and  said  with  sparkling  eyes — 

"Beatrice,  where  shall  we  spend  our  honeymoon?" 

Beatrice  trembled. 

"  So  soon  ! "  was  her  faint  answer. 

"  Beatrice,  can  we  secure  our  happiness  too  soon?  " 

Her  whole  heart  spoke  in  her  reply. 

"  Gilbert,"  she  said,  clinging  to  him,  "  if  I  could  be  in  your 
keeping  this  moment,  I  would,  for  then  I  should  feel  sure  in- 
deed against  all  harm  !  " 

"  My  darling,  what  harm  can  come  near  you?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  replied,  a  little  vaguely ;  "  but  every 
thing  shall  be  as  you  wish,  and  when  and  where  you  wish." 

It  was  plain  that  some  thought  of  sorrow,  some  presentiment 
of  evil,  even  more  than  the  wish  of  pleasing  her  lover,  were  in 
Beatrice's  ready  consent.  Gilbert  felt  disturbed,  but  if  warning 
voices  spoke  within  him,  he  would  not  heed  them ;  the  joy  of 
soon  having  Beatrice  silenced  them  effectually. 

"  Let  it  be  then  as  soon  as  it  can  be,"  he  said ;  *'  and  we  wiU 
go  to  my  house  in  Yerville  for  a  few  weeks." 

"  And  come  back  here  ?  "  said  Beatrice. 
10* 


226  BEATRICE. 

"  I  suppose  you  would  not  give  up  Carnoosie?" 

Beatrice  east  a  fond  and  proud  look  around  her. 

"  Carnoosie  is  my  kingdom,"  she  replied ;  "  and  what  queen 
would  give  up  her  kingdom  ?  " 

Gilbert  was  silent. 

"  Gilbert,"  she  said  uneasily,  "  you  know  my  meaning.  You 
shall  be  master  even  more  than  I  am  mistress.  Do  not  be  angry 
with  me." 

"  Angry  because  you  are  rich  and  I  am  poor.  That  would 
be  strange  indeed  ! " 

She  looked  up  at  him,  but  there  was  not  the  shadow  of  jeal- 
ousy or  of  displeasure  on  Gilbert's  open  face.  He  took  Beatrice, 
young,  pretty,  and  rich,  not  as  his  due,  but  as  one  of  those  glori- 
ous prizes  which  life  gives  to  few,  and  which  those  few  would  be 
mad  to  refuse." 

"  Then  it  is  all  settled,"  he  said  in  a  firm  voice  ;  "I  shall  go 
to-morrow  to  Verville,  and  prepare  my  house,  then  come  back 
to  you.     We  are  to  be  married  in  London." 

"  Why  in  London,  Gilbert?" 

"  It  is  my  father's  wish." 

The  habit  of  rebellion  prompted  Beatrice  to  say  "No,"  but 
prudence  kept  her  silent.  To  say  "  no  "  was  not  to  marry  Gil- 
bert, for  Mr.  Gervoise  would  not  yield.  For  once  she  must  not 
merely  submit,  but  submit  with  a  good  grace.  And  Gilbert  was 
not  more  impatient  to  have  her,  than  Beatrice  was  now  impatient 
to  be  his  ;  for  to  be  his  was  not  merely  to  win  the  great  happi- 
ness of  her  life,  it  was  also  to  be  secure  and  free  for  ever.  It 
was  escaping  from  bondage  to  liberty. 

"  To-day  is  Monday,"  said  Gilbert ;  "  I  leave  to-morrow,  and 
come  back  on  Thursday.  Do  you  not  think  we  can  be  married 
next  Saturday  ?.    I  wish  it  were  over." 

"  So  do  I,"  replied  Beatrice  in  a  low  tone. 

Something  ailed  them,  something  beyond  the  hopes  or  joys 
which  fill  the  hearts  of  happy  lovers.  They  could  not  part  that 
day.  From  noon  till  evening  it  saw  them  wandering  side  by  side, 
one  ever  seeking  the  other,  if  chance  divided  them  for  a  few  mo- 
ments. As  soon  as  dinner  was  over  they  went  out  together  on 
the  terrace.  They  leaned  on  the  balustrade,  and  looked  at  the 
flower-garden,  and  were  silent  for  awhile.     Beatrice  spoke  first. 

"  Never  mind  about  the  house,  Gilbert.  Do  not  go,  Gilbert, 
if  you  care  for  me." 

Gilbert  looked  down  at  her  and  smiled.  Her  looks,  her 
tones  said,  "  Stay  with  me,"  and  they  said  it  with  a  force  which 


BEATRICE.  227 

went  to  Gilbert's  very  heart.  His  trembling  hand  sought  hers, 
and  pressed  it  fervently. 

"  Beatrice,"  he  said,  "  I  wish  I  were  less  happy." 

"Why  so?" 

"  Because  happiness  is  not  mortal,  and  we  are." 

"  So  we  are  not  parted,  what  matter?" 

"  Nothing  shall  part  us,  Beatrice — ^nothing." 

"  Gilbert,  my  dear  boy,"  called  Mr.  Gervoise's  voice,  speak- 
ing from  the  window  of  his  study. 

"  I  wish  that  raven  had  not  croaked,"  thought  Beatrice  with 
a  shiver. 

Gilbert  whispered  that  he  would  soon  return,  and  left  her. 
He  thought  that  Mr.  Gervoise  would  be  satisfied  with  a  few 
words  from  the  window,  but  his  father  informed  him  that  he  had 
too  much  to  say  for  that ;  so  Gilbert,  giving  a  look  of  regret  to 
Beatrice,  entered  the  house,  and  made  his  way  to  the  study.  Mr. 
Gervoise  was  sitting  in  a  deep  chair,  his  legs  were  crossed,  his 
hands  folded,  and  his  eyes  shut.  The  room  was  grey  and  shad- 
owy, and  Gilbert  asked  if  he  should  not  ring  for  lights  ;  but  Mr. 
Gervoise  declined. 

"  I  like  this  English  twilight  exceedingly.  Sit  down,  Gil- 
bert, and  shut  the  window,  if  you  please.  There  is  no  necessity 
the  servants  should  hear  us." 

Gilbert  obeyed,  took  a  chair,  and  prepared  to  listen. 

"  Allow  me,  my  dear  boy,  to  congratulate  you,  first  of  aU, 
on  your  coming  happiness.  You  have  played  your  cards  well ; 
the  game  is  yours,  and  let  me  tell  you  that  a  pretty  girl  like 
Beatrice,  with  some  thousands  a-year  for  her  portion,  is  no  mean 
stakes." 

Gilbert  did  not  much  like  this  speech,  but  construing  it  in 
the  most  favourable  sense,  he  thanked  his  father,  and  accepted 
his  congratulations. 

"  You  have  expressed  yourself  so  handsomely  about  settle- 
ments and  so  forth,"  resumed  Mr.  Gervoise,  "  that  I  have  little 
doubt  but  we  shall  agree  when  we  come  down  to  particulars. 
Still  it  is  better  to  have  a  thorough  understanding  before  we  pro- 
ceed further." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Gilbert.  "  I  wish  every  thing  to  be  settled 
on  Miss  Gordon." 

"  Yery  gentlemanlike  and  proper,"  murmured  Mr.  Gervoise  ; 
"  Gilbert  you  gladden  your  father's  heart." 

"  Then  pray  consider  that  matter  settled,"  said  Gilbert,  half 
rising. 


228  BEATEIOE. 

"A  few  words  more,"  observed  Mr.  Grervoise,  signing  hian 
to  remain — "  only  a  few  words.  Beatrice  is  too  good  a  daughter 
to  wish  her  mother  to  leave  Carnoosie.  I  should  like  Mrs.  Ger- 
voise's  right  to  have  Carnoosie  as  her  permanent  residence  re- 
cognized in  the  settlements ;  and,  of  course,"  carelessly  added 
Mr.  Gervoise,  "  that  right  will  be  extended  to  me,  should  I  have 
the  misfortune  to  survive  my  dear  wife." 

"  Miss  Gordon — "  began  Gilbert. 

"  I  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  Miss  Gordon  on  this  sub- 
ject," interrupted  Mr.  Gervoise  ;  "  in  the  first  place,  she  is  not 
of  age — ^in  the  second,  it  would  not  be  pleasant  to  me.  It  is 
with  you,  Gilbert,  her  husband,  and  the  real  and  legal  master  of 
Carnoosie,  that  I  deal." 

Gilbert's  calm  and  noble  forehead  grew  crimson. 

"  I  marry  Beatrice,"  he  said,  "  and  not  Carnoosie ;  it  is 
impossible  I  should  alienate  in  any  manner  that  which  is  not 
mine." 

"  Beatrice  loves  you  dearly,"  replied  Mr.  Gervoise,  "  and 
will  assuredly  acquiesce  in  whatever  you  do.  Moreover,  my 
dear  boy,  consider  how  awkward  and  unjust  it  would  be  if  Mrs. 
Gervoise  and  I  should,  as  it  were,  be  turned  out  of  this  house, 
which  has  been  ours  so  many  years.  It  is  not  to  be  thought  of. 
I  cannot  admit  that  such  should  be  my  reward,  after  all  the  care 
and  tenderness  that  I  have  lavished  on  Beatrice's  youth." 

Gilbert  did  not  love  his  father,  but  he  did  not  see  him  with 
Beatrice's  eyes,  and  he  hastily  and  warmly  assured  him  that  to 
turn  either  him  or  Mrs.  Gervoise  out  of  the  house  was  out  of  the 
question. 

"  Very  nice  and  proper,"  said  Mr.  Gervoise ;  "  but  I  must 
have  a  right  to  remain,  or  I  will  not ;  moreover,  this  is  not  all. 
I  believe  I  have  mentioned  to  you  under  what  circumstances  I 
was  made  Beatrice's  trustee.  Mr.  Carnoosie  took  a  great  liberty 
with  Mr.  Raby  and  me  ;  we  knew  nothing  about  it  until  we  found 
ourselves  in  it.  That  trust,"  solemnly  said  Mr.  Gervoise, 
''  killed  Mr.  Raby,  and  it  is  killing  me." 

"  I  hope  not,"  said  Gilbert. 

"  Do  not  smile,  my  dear  boy — do  not.  This  is  no  jesting 
matter — ^that  trust  is  killing  me." 

Gilbert  expressed  his  satisfaction  to  think  that  this  dangerous 
trust  would  be  over  in  a  few  months.  » 

"Yes,  it  is  a  comfort,"  replied  his  father;  "but  are  you 
aware  how  many  thousands  I  am  out  of  pocket  by  that  trust- 
how  much  of  what  should  have  been  yours  and  Antony's  has 


BEATRICE.  229 

been  spent  on  Miss  Gordon's  business  ?  My  dear  boy,  the  aniount 
is  simply  fabulous." 

*'  I  am  concerned  to  hear  it,"  gravely  answered  Gilbert. 

"  My  sense  of  duty,  my  conscience,  I  may  say,  prompts  me 
to  settle  this  matter  with  you  before  you  marry  Beatrice.  I  wish 
the  money  I  spent  to  be  refunded  to  me  ;  I  do  not  wish  for  the 
lowest  interest,  not  for  one-half  per  cent.,  so  please  not  to  men- 
tion it." 

Mr.  Gervoise  spoke  almost  shortly,  and  as  if  his  son  had 
been  pressing  him  to  accept  more  than  his  due  out  of  Beatrice's 
fortune.  Yet  to  do  him  justice,  Gilbert  had  done  no  such  thing  ; 
he  had  remained  silent,  and  very  grave. 

"  My  dear  boy,  this  is  what  I  want  to  say — ^this,  and  no 
more :  give  me  your  I  O  U  for  the  amount  due  to  me,  and  let 
my  right  to  remain  in  Carnoosie  be  recognized  by  an  agreement 
between  us,  and  I  am  content."  , 

Gilbert  reddened  with  indignation  and  shame.  His  father 
offered  no  accounts,  and  asked  him  for  an  I  O  U — what  did  that 
mean?  He  did  not  dare  to  answer  him  on  that  head,  but  he 
could  not  help  saying  :  # 

"  Allow  me  to  doubt  whether  such  an  agreement  as  you  wish 
for  would  be  legal?" 

"  Yes,  it  would  ;  besides,  even  if  it  were  not,  how  is  Beatrice 
to  help  it  once  you  are  her  husband  ?  " 

This  time  Gilbert's  indignation  was  not  merely  felt,  but 
spoken. 

"  I  will  never  marry  her  on  these  terms,"  he  said — "  never  ! 
I  will  never  sign  away  her  property  and  my  honour ;  for  it  is  as 
master,  not  as  guest,  you  want  to  stay.  Carnoosie  is  hers,  and 
hers  it  shall  remain  ! " 

Mr.  Gervoise's  shut  eyes  opened. 

"Gilbert,  are  you  mad?"  he  asked.  "I  have  heard  you 
patiently,  but  even  my  patience  will  go  no  further.  Beatrice  is 
not  a  girl  whom  any  man,  even  my  son,  shall  marry  off-hand. 
If  any  thing,  my  terms  are  too  moderate — I  ask  for  the  money  I 
have  spent,  no  more.  I  might  ask  to  have  Carnoosie  entirely, 
and  I  am  s^isfied  to  share  it  with  your  wife  and  you,  always 
reserving,  of  course,  that  authority  to  which  I  have  been  accus- 
tomed, and  which  it  would  be  absurd  in  me  to  give  up.  The 
rest  of  the  property,"  added  Mr.  Gervoise,  with  a  reluctant  sigh, 
"  I  shall  surrender  to  you  when  Beatrice  is  of  age." 

"  I  can  only  say  what  I  have  said :  make  these  terms  with 
Beatrice." 


230  BEATRICE. 

"  With  Beatrice,  you  fool !  and  if  you  marry  Beatrice,  are 
you  not  Beatrice's  master?" 

"  Ay,  her  master  in  love  and  in  law,"  said  Gilbert,  his  lips 
quivering  as  he  spoke — "  her  master,  but  not  her  despoiler." 

Mr.  Gervoise  sat  up  in  his  chair. 

"  My  dear  Gilbert,"  he  said,  plaintively,  "  need  I  tell  you,  a 
medical  man,  that  my  life  is  most  uncertain  ?  I  have  but  a  few 
years  to  live  ;  do  not  darken  and  embitter  these  years." 

But  even  this  appeal  did  not  soften  Gilbert.  He  had  risen, 
and  he  now  stood  before  his  father,  cold  and  rigid  as  marble,  and 
as  unyielding. 

"  You  are  an  ungrateful  boy,"  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  rising  too ; 
"  I  brought  you  here  to  give  you  Beatrice,  and  I  succeeded. 
This  true  daughter  of  Eve  took  a  fancy  to  you,  but  without  me 
she  would  never  have  seen  you.  I  brought  you  here,  and  gave 
you  a  young,  pretty,  and  rich  wife,  and  this  is  my  reward." 

"  But  I  did  not  come  here  for  that,"  indignantly  said  Gil- 
bert ;  "  when  I  came  here  I  was  pledged  to  Mademoiselle  Jo- 
anne." 

"You  were,  and  who  settled  that  matter  for  you?  Why, 
you  would  be  her  husband  now — and  a  poor,  paltry  village  doc- 
tor, but  for  me." 

The  truth  flashed  across  Gilbert's  mind,  and  he  turned  ashy 
pale.  It  was  his  father  who  had  secretly  broken  off  his  match 
with  Lucie  Joanne,  and  Beatrice  was  bought  by  treachery  and 
dishonour. 

"  Good  God !  what  have  you  done  ! "  he  cried,  "  what  have 
you  done  ! " 

"  Given  you  that  glorious  Beatrice  Gordon,  instead  of  that 
poor,  pale-eyed  Lucie,  you  idiot !  And  now,  will  you  come  to 
your  senses  and  acknowledge  what  you  owe  me  ?  " 

"  I  owe  you  a  lasting  sorrow,"  cried  Gilbert  in  the  bitterness 
of  his  he^rt,  "  for  Lucie  has  been  sacrificed  to  your  ambition. 
If  she  was  not  the  prize  Beatrice  is,  at  least  no  ignominious 
terms  were  attached  to  her  possession.  If  I  did  not  love  her  as 
I  love  this  one,  at  least  I  could  have  had  her  in  peace  and 
honour." 

"Nonsense,"  coolly  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  "you  are  no  more 
disgraced  for  giving  me  Carnoosie  and  your  I  O  U,  than  I  am 
disgraced  for  giving  you  Beatrice.  Indeed,  if  you  are  as  much 
in  love  as  you  say,  she  surely  is  the  greater  prize  of  the  two. 
But  we  will  say  no  more  on  this  subject  this  evening.     You  will 


BEATEICE.  '  231 

sleep  or  dream  over  it,  and  make  up  your  mind — ^you  know  my 
terms." 

"  And  Beatrice,"  said  Gilbert,  "  what  has  Beatrice  done  that 
she  should  suiFer  ?  Why  should  she  be  tortured  and  tormented, 
poor  child,  because  she  has  the  misfortune  of  being  rich  ?  " 

"  Well,  do  not  torture  and  torment  her,"  composedly  said 
Mr.  Gervoise  ;  "  she  will  have  plenty  of  money  coming  in  soon 
after  she  becomes  of  age.  You  have  made  her  passionately  fond 
of  you  ;  you  will  not  be  so  cruel  as  to  forsake  her,  I  hope.  Put 
the  case  to  her  if  you  like — she  is  there  waiting  on  the  terrace — 
and  see  if  she  would  not  give  up  half  her  income  and  ten  Car- 
noosies  rather  than  give  up  her  lover." 

Gilbert  gave  his  father  a  look  of  cutting  reproach,  but  Mr. 
Gervoise  received  it  very  composedly ;  the  unhappy  young  man 
felt  that  his  doom  was  sealed,  and  with  despair  in  his  heart  he 
left  the  room. 

He  found  Beatrice  as  he  had  left  her. 

"  Gilbert,"  she  said,  looking  up,  "  you  know  you  are  not  to 
go  to-morrow." 

If  ever  man  longed  to  bear  away  from  this  weary  world  the 
woman  he  loved,  and  hide  with  her  far  from  every  eye,  it  was 
Gilbert  then.  His  lip  trembled  with  passionate  emotion ;  he 
took  Beatrice's  hand,  and  pressed  it. 

"  Beatrice,"  he  said,  "  must  we  never  part?" 

"  Never,"  was  her  deliberate  reply.  He  looked  down  at  her. 
Oh  !  what  infinite  love  he  read  in  those  dark  eyes  raised  to  his  ! 
He  took  her  arm,  and  led  her  away  far  from  his  father's  prying 
gaze.     He  did  not  pause  until  they  reached  the  orchard. 

"  And  now,  Beatrice,"  he  said,  "  let  us  talk  calmly." 

Calmly,  Gilbert,  when  your  heart's  pulses  are  so  rapid,  and 
your  whole  being  is  in  a  fever ! 

As  they  walked  along,  Gilbert  had  thought — 

"  In  a  few  months  Beatrice  will  be  of  age.  Can  we  not 
wait  and  marry  then  ?  No  one,  not  even  her  guardian,  can  sell 
her,  and  make  a  barter  of  her  !  What  though  my  father  should 
refuse  me  his  consent?  I  am  not  bound  to  regard  that.  He 
urged  me  into  this  passion,  and  brought  me  here  to  this  temp- 
tation. On  him  lies  the  sin  of  my  disobedience — not  on  me.  In 
honour  and  in  love  I  must  marry  Beatrice." 

Happy  necessity  !  Never  had  he  loved  her  more,  never  had 
he  more  fondly  longed  for  her.  This  inevitable  delay  seemed  to 
render  all  the  more  sweet,  future  possession  ;  and  that  seemed  as 
certain  as   any  thing  human  may  be.     Death,  indeed,   might 


232  BEATRICE. 

part  them,  but  how  could  he  think  of  death  with  Beatrice  warm 
and  living  by  his  side,  and  love  in  all  the  fervour  of  twenty-five 
in  his  heart  ? 

"Beatrice,"  he  now  said,  "  if  any  thing  were  to  delay  our 
marriage,  would  you  wait  for  me  ?  " 

"  Grilbert,  what  is  going  to  delay  it?" 

/'  See  how  you  run  off  with  that  idea  instead  of  answering." 

"  What  answer  is  needed?  Do  you  not  know  I  would  wait 
a  lifetime  for  you  ?  " 

"  Beatrice,  do  not  spoil  me,"  said  Gilbert,  stopping  short ; 
"  you  were  like  an  April  day  at  first,  and  now  you  are  like  a 
summer  morning,  sweet  and  balmy,  but  I  may  need  harsher 
treatment." 

"  You  must  take  me  as  you  get  me,"  saucily  said  Beatrice, 
"  and  you  must  accustom  your  constitution  to  this  variety  of 
climates.  It  would  not  be  summer  now  if  you  were  not  going 
to-morrow,  for  I  see  you  will  go,  and  your  value  rises  as  I  dread 
that  going.  Gilbert,  I  will  be  open  with  you — I  require  you  in 
more  senses  than  one.  It  is  not  merely  love  that  bids  me  cling 
to  you,  you  vain  man,  I  long  to  throw  upon  you  the  burden  of  my 
sins  and  cares,  and  to  feel  that  you  stand  between  me  and  all 
harm." 

Gilbert  could  not  know  how  deep  was  Beatrice's  meaning ; 
her  sins  and  her  cares  seemed  to  him  equally  light  and  childish, 
but  his  heart  throbbed  with  exquisite  bliss  as  he  heard  her.  It 
was  not  a  mere  girl's  fancy  that  give  him  this  fond  young  Bea- 
trice ;  it  was  a  deep  trust,  a  sweet  necessity,  a  true  womanly  feel- 
ing, a  proud  and  humble  recognition  of  his  protecting  manhood 
and  his  clear  honour.  And  could  he  then  help  his  father  to  sell 
her,  or  even  tell  her  on  what  ignominious  terms  she  was  to  be 
purchased  ? 

"  I  suppose  I  must  let  you  go  to-morrow,"  resumed  Beatrice  * 
''  but,  Gilbert,  this  must  be  our  last  parting." 

"  Yes,  my  darling,  our  last  indeed  ! " 

And  again  hiding  the  sad  present  from  his  view,  a  sweet 
future  came  before  Mr.  Gervoise's  son. 

"  Gilbert,  why  did  you  bring  me  here?" 

"  Do  you  not  like  this  place  ?  " 

"  Not  like  it !  What  spot  is  there  about  Carnoosie  I  do  not 
love  ?  My  poor  darling  often  wants  to  go  away — I  never  do. 
All  I  ask  is  to  stay  here  for  ever  with  you  and  her ! " 

"  I  suppose  you  would  not  leave  her  ?  "  said  Gilbert,  his  voice 
rather  tremulous. 


BEATEICE. 

"  Leave  lier ! "  veTiemeiitly  cried  Beatrice  ;  "  never,  Gilbert, 
never — not  even  for  you  ! " 

Gilbert  stood  still.  Beatrice  would  not  leave  her  mother — 
Mr.  Gervoise  would  not  part  from  his  wife.  The  conviction  that 
Beatrice  would  never  be  his  rushed  to  him  with  pitiless  force. 
His  fata  morgana^  his  vision  of  palaces  and  gardens,  and  fair 
islands  of  delight,  floating  over  blue  Sicilian  seas,  had  been  torn 
asunder  by  the  hand  he  most  loved.  In  a  moment,  with  a  few 
words,  with  a  breath,  she  had  dispelled  the  glorious  vision.  The 
sunshine  passed  once  more  from  his  life,  and  he  stood  by  Beatrice 
Gordon  in  the  orchard  of  Carnoosie,  with  a  chill  and  grey  Eng- 
lish evening  closing  around  them. 

The  blow  was  too  severe  for  speech.  It  left  Gilbert  stunned, 
amazed,  and  mute.  He  had  completely  forgotten  Mrs.  Gervoise's 
existence,  and  built  the  fair  edifice  of  his  hopes  on  moving  sand. 

"  Gilbert,  you  alarm  me  !  "  said  Beatrice  ;  "  you  did  not  want 
me  to  leave  my  mother,  did  you  ?  " 

"  No  ;  but  why  not  leave  her  ?  " 

"  Do  not  ask,  Gilbert." 

Her  reply  said  enough.  It  was  as  he  had  guessed.  Beatrice 
stood  between  her  mother  and  implacable  tyranny,  and  she  was 
the  veriest  slave  in  the  house  that  called  her  mistress.  Gilbert 
felt  sick  and  weary.  He  was  in  one  of  those  moods  when  the 
mere  burden  of  life  is  too  much  for  the  vexed  spirit.  A  battle 
lay  before  him,  sharp  and  most  bitter,  and  though  Gilbert  knew 
he  must  prevail,  he  also  knew  at  what  dreary  cost  the  victory 
must  be  won. 

Unconscious  of  his  trouble,  Beatrice,  who  could  never  be 
downcast  for  any  length  of  time,  became  merry,  and  rather  in- 
clined to  tease. 

"  She  must  suspect  nothing,"  thought  Gilbert,  so  he  answered 
her  in  the  same  mood. 

Oh !  Beatrice !  Beatrice !  you  little  knew  how  deep  and 
blest  and  wretched  was  the  love  that  walked  by  your  side  that 
evening,  whilst  you  laughed  and  talked,  and  sang  snatches  of 
song,  and  were  gay  as  any  young  lark  soaring  from  a  field  of  wheat 
on  a  summer  morn. 


CHAPTER  XXYIII. 

Dinner  was  nearly  over,  when  Gilbert,  looking  at  his  watch, 
said: 

"Shall  I  have  time  to  get  the  eight  o'clock  train  ?  " 

Most  composedly  Mr.  Gervoise  replied  : 

"  Certainly,  you  need  only  cross  the  forest  and  you  will  be  in 
time." 

Gilbert  looked  as  calm  as  his  father,  but  love  is  the  great 
sorcerer  and  diviner.  The  whole  of  that  day  Beatrice  had  felt 
tormented  and  perplexed,  and  now  a  voice  said  to  her : 

"  It  is  all  over.  His  father  has  been  at  work,  and  Gilbert  is 
lost  to  you." 

She  felt  desperate.  The  happiness  of  life,  which  she  had 
been  seizing  with  so  eager  a  hold,  was  slipping  from  her,  and 
slipping,  as  she  felt,  without  hope  of  recall.  Let  Gilbert  go,  and 
all  was  gone. 

"He  shall  not  go  !"  thought  Beatrice. 

She  hoped  to  speak  to  him  after  dinner,  but  Gilbert  gave  her 
no  chance.  Before  the  meal  was  quite  over,  he  rose,  and  apolo- 
gizing on  account  of  the  hurry  he  was  in,  he  left  the  dining- 
room. 

When  he  came  down  again  Beatrice  was  on  the  terrace,  but, 
without  stopping  to  speak  to  her,  he  said,  as  he  passed  by  her  : 

"I  must  go  and  bid  Mrs.  Gervoise  good-bye." 

Beatrice  did  not  answer.  She  let  him  go  in  alone,  and  when 
the  brief  adieu  was  over  and  Gilbert  came  out  again,  she  was 
gone.  Mr.  Gervoise,  who  sat  smoking  outside,  said  that  Beatrice 
had  re-entered  the  house.  Gilbert  felt  glad  to  think  the  keen 
pang  of  parting  was  spared  to  them  both.  He  looked  at  his 
watch. 

"  I  must  go,"  he  said,  "  or  I  shall  be  late." 

"  I  think  so,  too.     Au  revoir,  my  dear  boy." 

Mr.  Gervoise  no  doubt  thought  it  best  to  submit  to  his  de- 
feat with  a  good  grace.     His  paternal  regard  was  mild  at  all 


BEATRICE.  235 

times,  it  was  very  cool  on  this  evening.  He  saw  his  son  depart 
with  a  cold  and  unmoved  countenance,  and,  though  he  bestirred 
himself  so  far  as  to  walk  with  him  to  the  gate,  he  did  no  go  be- 
yond it.  Gilbert  had  declined  the  carriage,  and  walked  through 
the  forest  on  to  the  station.  Beatrice  knew  this,  and  she  had 
gone  beforehand  to  meet  him.  She  felt  resolved  to  know  the 
truth,  however  sad  and  bitter  it  might  be. 

She  took  a  shorter  route  than  that  with  which  he  was  fami- 
liar, and  knowing  the  path  along  which  he  would  come,  she  sat 
down  on  a  grassy  knoll  and  waited  for  him.  A  beautiful  sight  is 
that  of  evening  in  a  forest,  when  the  red  sunset  flings  its  gold  and 
crimson  rays  along  the  paths  and  across  the  aged  trunks,  and 
lights  up  the  velvet  moss  or  gives  a  more  tender  hue  to  the  young 
green  of  the  nether  branches  ;  and  never  had  the  forest  seemed 
more  beautiful  to  Beatrice  than  it  did  on  this  evening.  She  was 
waiting  for  Gilbert,  and  she  would  not  remember  that  she  was 
waiting  to  part  from  him.  The  present  joy  banished  the  future 
grief,  though  a  few  minutes  alone  would  divide  them.  A  little 
more  and  he  would  come,  and  she  could  think  of  nothing  else. 

The  spot,  the  hour,  and  his  coming,  all  united  to  make  her 
heart  melt  within  her.  A  ring  of  trees  surrounded  her.  At 
the  end  of  oneJong  avenue  she  saw  Carnoosie  glowing  in  the  sun- 
set, at  the  end  of  another  shone  the  blue  country  far,  very  far 
away.  Scattered  in  the  grass  grew  violets  wild  and  sweet,  starry 
wood  anemones,  delicious  lilies  of  the  valley.  Almost  over- 
powering rose  their  fragrance  on  the  air,  but  not  for  Beatrice. 
She  loved  the  forest  with  the  love  of  possession,  for  the  spot 
where  she  sat  was  hers,  and  she  knew  every  one  of  those  stately 
trees  as  well  as  she  knew  the  apple-trees  in  the  orchard  or  the 
rose-bushes  in  the  garden. 

At  length  a  step  sounded  in  the  quiet  forest.  Beatrice  rose 
with  a  beating  heart ;  a  few  seconds  more,  and  Gilbert  appeared 
before  her. 

"  Oh  !  Beatrice,  that  is  kind !  "  he  cried,  coming  toward  her 
with  sparkling  eyes. 

It  would  have  been  better  not  to  have  seen  her  again,  and  he 
knew  it ;  but  it  was  so  sweet  to  see  her,  that  he  forgot  it  might 
not  be  wise.     Beatrice  looked  at  him  very  sadly. 

"  Gilbert,"  she  cried  passionately,  "  do  you  think  me  so  cold 
or  so  blind  as  not  to  see  that  something  terrible  has  happened, 
something  that  will  divide  us,  unless  we  are  wise  and  stand  fast 
by  one  another  ?   Gilbert,  stand  by  me,  and  I  will  standby  you." 

Gilbert  gave  her  a  look  of  the  deepest  sorrow,  but  did  not 
answer. 


236  BEATRICE. 

"  What  is  it ! — tell  me  at  least,"  implored  Beatrice,  "  what 
has  happened  ?  " 

Oh  !  hard  and  cruel  question  ! 

"  My  father's  consent  is  granted  on  terms  I  cannot  comply 
with,"  he  said  at  length. 

"  What  terms? "  eagerly  asked  Beatrice. 

Gilbert  was  silent. 
"  Gilbert,  is  it  any  thing  I  can  do  ?     Can  money,  can  any  con- 
cession on  my  part  satisfy  him  ?  " 

"  Beatrice  /  cannot  submit  to  my  father's  terms." 

Beatrice's  arms  dropped  loosely  by  her  sides. 

"  And  so,"  she  said  vaguely,  "  I  was  to  be  your  wife  on 
Saturday,  and  it  is  all  over — it  is  all  over  ! " 

Gilbert  could  not  look  at  her.  His  own  heart  was  torn  and 
tortured  ;  but  could  he  plunder  Beatrice,  or,  deepest  of  all  humi- 
liations, could  he,  the  poor  man,  let  her,  the  rich  girl,  buy  him — 
and  buy  him  from  his  own  father  ? 

"  Gilbert,"  said  Beatrice  rallying,  "I  shall  soon  be  of  age." 

"  Will  you  leave  your  mother?  "  asked  Gilbert. 

"  No,  never ! "  impetuously  cried  Beatrice  ;  "  and  you  know 
why ! " 

He  did  know  why.  Beatrice  stood  between  that  poor,  pale, 
helpless  lady  and  her  tyrant,  and  to  leave  her  was  to  surrender 
her,  bound  hand  and  foot,  to  her  master. 

"  I  know  what  Mr.  Gervoise  wanted,"  said  Beatrice ;  "  I 
know  it,  Gilbert — ^he  wanted  Carnoosie.  Oh  !  Gilbert,  I  will  give 
him  every  thing  if  he  will  but  let  me  have  my  mother  and  you." 

Gilbert  took  her  hand  and  pressed  it  ardently. 

"  Beatrice,"  he  asked,  with  a  quivering  lip,  "  would  you  have 
a  disgraced  husband  ?  " 

"  No,"  passionately  replied  Beatrice,  "  I  would  die  first ! " 

"  Well,  then,  we  must  part,"  and  he  dropped  her  hand. 

"  And  so  it  is  all  over  !  "  she  said,  after  awhile  ;  "  it  is  all 
over ! " 

She  looked  sick  and  faint ;  for  though  she  had  anticipated 
trouble,  delay,  and  sorrow,  she  had  not  thought  of  any  thing  so 
bitter  as  this. 

"  God  help  me  ! "  said  Gilbert,  with  deep  and  manly  sorrow. 
"  God  help  me,  Beatrice  !     God  help  us  both !  " 

"Why  did  you  make  me  love  you?"  asked  Beatrice,  piti- 
fully. "  I  did  not,  at  first.  Why  did  you  make  me  love  you, 
Gilbert?     I  only  wanted  friendship — ^you  wanted  love!     Love 


BEATEICE.  231^ 

came,  I  gave  it  you,  and  though  you  regret  it,  I  cannot  take  it 
back.     Oh  !  Gilbert,  why  did  you  make  me  love  you  ?  " 

She  stood  before  him,  pale,  helpless,  and  piteous,  her  pride 
all  gone  in  her  sorrow.  It  was  not  in  mortal  man  to  resist  the 
appeal.  Gilbert  took  her  in  his  arms,  and  pressing  her  to  his 
heart,  he  said,  in  a  deep,  resolute  voice  : 

"Beatrice,  I  will  conquer  fate,  and  you  shall  be  my  wife 

With  the  faith  of  a  child  Beatrice  forgot  all  her  grief  and  all 
her  fears.  Her  head  leaned  against  his  shoulder  with  the  trust 
of  the  old  friendship,  and  her  heart  beat  with  the  tenderness  of 
the  new  love.  Be  happy,  Beatrice,  be  happy  whilst  you  feel  thus 
wrapped  in  his  love  as  well  as  embrace  !  Take  in  every  ghmpse 
of  that  old  forest  now  turned  into  bronze  and  gold  by  the  glorious 
splendour  of  the  dying  day  ;  let  the  rich  green  of  the  aged  trees, 
the  streaks  of  light  along  the  deep  waving  grass,  the  last  soft  song 
of  the  bird  on  the  bough  above  your  head — all  combine  into  one 
divine  whole  and  be  blended  for  ever  with  the  memory  of  your 
love  !  Life  gives  these  moments  but  to  youth,  and  even  to  youth 
she  grants  but  few  such.  Some  live  and  die  without  wetting  their 
lips  at  that  sweet  cup.  Be  happy,  then,  now  is  your  time  ;  you 
are  privileged.  Whatever  your  future  fate  may  be,  you  have 
won  a  noble  heart,  and  felt  a  noble  love  ! 

"  Beatrice,  I  am  very  weak,"  said  Gilbert,  softly,  smoothing 
back  the  black  curls  from  her  flashed  cheeks. 

"  You  already  repent,"  she  said,  reproachfully. 

"  Oh  !  Beatrice  !  Beatrice  I  "  he  sighed,  "  I  repent  nothing, 
but  I  see  no  issue.  It  is  a  torment  not  to  have  you,'  and  I  see 
no  way  of  getting  you  !  " 

"  It  is  not  by  going  that  you  will  get  me,  certainly.  Why  not 
stay  and  settle  here,  and  practise  and  wait.  We  are  so  young, 
life  is  so  long,  and  there  is  such  a  world  of  time  before  us.  Stay, 
Gilbert,  and  we  shall  marry  when  the  time  comes — not  a  day 
sooner." 

"  Beatrice,  do  not  tempt  me." 

"  Yes,  I  will,"  she  replied,  raising  her  dark  eyes  to  his  with 
a  laughing  and  half-mocking  glance.  "  I  like  to  tempt  you, 
Gilbert." 

Her  words  broke  the  spell  which  the  picture  she  had  drawn 
was  already  weaving  around  Gilbert's  heart. 

"  No,  Beatrice,"  he  said,  very  sadly,  but  very  firmly  too.  "  I 
am  mortal,  and  could  not  resist  such  temptation..  We  must  part, 
and,  Beatrice,  you  must  be  free.     You  are  a  child  in  experience 


238  BEATRICE. 

of  life,  and  you  shall  not  be  pledged  to  me.  Do  not  misunder- 
stand me.  If  I  cannot  marry  you,  I  will  marry  no  other  woman. 
I  have  had  but  one  Beatrice  in  the  past,  I  will  have  no  other 
Beatrice  in  the  future  ;  but  you  shall  be  free,  Beatrice." 

Beatrice  took  two  steps  backwards,  and  gave  him  a  flashing 
glance. 

"  You  do  not  love  me  !  "  she  cried,  impetuously ;  "  you  never 
did.  If  I  am  free,  so  are  you.  If  I  am  not  bound  to  you,  I  will 
not  let  you  be  bound  to  me." 

Gilbert  stretched  out  his  arm  and  drew  her  back  toward 
him. 

"  Beatrice  !  Beatrice  !  my  darling ! "  he  said,  "  how  can  you 
mistake  me  ?  I  love  you  infinitely  more  than  I  can  say,  but  it  is 
not  always  the  destiny  of  love  to  be  happy.  Have  you  forgotten 
how  we  were  parted  eleven  years  ago  ?  It  was  a  lovely  day — it 
began  with  sunshine  and  fair  promises,  and  it  ended  in  bitterness 
and  sorrow.  Beatrice,  our  love  is  good  and  true,  but  there  flows  a 
wide,  deep,  and  sullen  river  between  us.  Pity  me  that  I  see  no 
ford,  nothing  but  the  deep,  dark  waters." 

Beatrice  forgave  him  at  once.  She  knew  what  torrent  it  was 
that  divided  them  with  sullen  and  pitiless  waves,  and  she  said,  a 
little  desperately : 

"  Well,  we  need  not  marry  ! " 

"  Perhaps  we  never  shall,"  he  replied,  very  sadly,  "  But 
you  are  right,  Beatrice,  we  must  love  on.  We  cannot  go  back 
now,  and  we  must  not.  We  must  love  and  suffer,  though  it 
would  be  wiser  not  to  love  ;  but  wisdom  is  no  more  our  object 
than  is  happiness.  We  can  hope,  however,  and  God  may  have 
mercy  on  us." 

A  sharp  pang  crossed  Beatrice's  heart. 

"Ah!  you  are  religious,"  she  said,  bitterly.  "You  can 
pray ! " 

And  cannot  you,  Beatrice  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  suffer,  and  I  cannot  bear  to  suffer.  I  want  to  be 
happy,  and  I  see  happiness  going  from  me,  farther  and  farther, 
like  a  shore  on  which  I  shall  never  land  again.  Gilbert,  I  can- 
not bear  it !     I  know  I  must,  but  then  I  am  a  rebel !  " 

She  spoke  passionately  and  defiantly.  •  Gilbert  looked  at  her 
with  mingled  love  and  sorrow.  He  knew  Beatrice  better  than 
she  knew  herself.  He  knew  her  faults,  and  they  were  very 
^  great  faults — the  sad  fruit  of  a  rebellious  youth ;  but  he  also 
knew  how  deeply  she  loved  him,  and  how  strong  could  be  his 
influence  over  her.     If  he  stayed  and  married  her,  he  could  lead 


BEATEICE. 

back  this  rebellious  heart  to  God,  through  the  sweet  paths  of 
love  and  happiness.  Ah  !  what  a  task — and  ah  !  what  a  prose- 
lyte, and  what  a  temptation  !  But  if  it  dazzled  Gilbert,  it  could 
not  overcome  him. 

"  Beatrice  !  Beatrice  ! "  he  began. 

"Yes,"  she  interrupted,  "  I  shock  you.  I  know  it — ^but  I 
cannot  help  it.  You  might  make  me  different,  but  you  are 
going,  and  as  I  am  I  must  remain.'* 

Gilbert  sat  down  on  a  rising  bank,  and  made  her  sit  by  him. 

"  Beatrice,"  he  said,  "  we  must  part ;  but  let  there  not  be 
the  greatest  of  all  divisions  between  us.  Let  us  fear,  and  hope, 
and  pray,  and  love,  with  one  spirit.  Let  not  one  of  us  say, 
'  Thy  will  be  done,'  and  the  other,  '  Let  not  thy  will  be  done.' 
"We  part,  but  let  us  meet  in  one  common  bond  of  hope,  and 
faith,  and  trust  in  God,  and  of  sacrifice,  if  need  be.  We  cannot 
help  loving,  and  would  we  help  it  if  we  could  ?  but  we  can  love 
nobly,  generously.  Surely  God  will  pity  us  in  the  end,  and 
make  that  easy  which  now  seems  so  hard ! " 

Beatrice  would  not  utter  the  thought  that  rose  within  her. 
But  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  never  been  pitied,  that  she  had 
never  found  mercy,  that  her  youth  had  been  arid  and  bitter,  and 
that,  as  her  youth  had  been,  her  life  must  be. 

*'  Pray  for  me,  Gilbert,"  she  said  sadly — "  pray  that  I  may 
become  all  you  wish  me  to  be — all  I  should  be." 

Gilbert  did  not  answer — he  could  not ;  he  was  in  love, 
fondly,  passionately  in  love  ;  he  had  but  to  stretch  out  his  hand 
and  take  the  girl  he  loved,  and  he  could  not — he  must  not.  She 
was  there,  so  near,  and  so  far  ;  and  whilst  his  heart  was  full  of 
the  grief  of  their  parting — whilst  he  thought  with  disgust  and 
sickening  of  the  old  life  to  which  he  was  returning — of  the  empty 
home  which  was  to  have  seen  his  love's  full  and  perfect  bliss,  he 
had  to  talk  to  her  of  resignation,  and  duty,  and  sacrifice — words 
abhorrent  to  passion.  If  Beatrice  thought  her  lot  hard,  he 
thought  his  harder  still.  She  at  least  was  spared  doubt  and 
struggle,  and  fearful  temptation,  and  to  the  last  he  must  brave 
them — ^to  the  last  he  must  drain  the  dregs  of  that  bitter  thought : 
"  I  could  have  her  if  I  wished,  and  I  must  not — and  I  may  live 
and  die  and  not  have  her  !" 

He  rose  abruptly  from  her  side,  for  dangerous  weakness  was 
stealing  into  his  blood,  and  invading  his  whole  being. 

"  You  will  write  to  me?  "  said  Beatrice.  She  knew  he  was 
going,  but  she  was  generous,  and  did  not  attempt  to  detain  him. 
Gilbert  said  he  would  write — then  there  was  a  pause. 


24:0  BEATEIOE. 

"  I  must  go  now,  Beatrice." 

"  I  know  it,  but  do  not  tell  me  so." 

She  took  his  arm,  and  they  walked  down  one  of  the  forest 
avenues.  Joy  and  sorrow  filled  her  heart.  It  was  delightful  to 
walk  along  that  path  with  him  ;  it  was  bitter  to  think  that  it  led 
to  the  road,  and  to  their  parting.  Beatrice  turned  weak,  and 
said  entreatingly : 

"  Don't  go,  Gilbert." 

"  Beatrice,  you  know  I  must. 

"  Yes,  I  know  it.  "Well,  then,  go  quickly ;  I  cannot  bear 
this." 

But  when  Gilbert  stooped  to  give  her  a  last  embrace,  Bea- 
trice said : 

"  No  ;  stay  a  little  longer.     I  cannot  let  you  go  yet ! " 

Thus  they  lingered,  until  Gilbert  knew  that  he  had  lost  the 
train  ;  but  it  was  not  of  this  he  thought.  Blue  mists  were  rising 
in  the  long  shadowy  aisles  of  the  forest ;  he  feared  for  Beatrice 
— for  the  demon  fever  lurked  in  those  lovely  vapours  floating 
softly  through  the  foliage  of  the  solemn-looking  trees. 

"We  are  near  Carnoosie,"  said  Gilbert;  "I  will  take  you 
back  within  sight  of  it,  and  then  leave  you." 

Beatrice  made  no  demur,  but  when  the  edge  of  the  forest 
was  reached,  when  Gilbert  stopped  short,  and  looked  the  words 
of  parting  he  did  not  utter,  Beatrice  said : 

"  Yes,  I  know  we  must  part.  Oh !  Gilbert,  it  were  almost 
better  not  to  have  seen  you  again  ;  but  no — do  not  mind  what  I 
say — there  is  nothing,  no  life,  no  joy,  like  having  seen  you  once 
more ! " 

He  bent  his  face  to  hers.  For  awhile  they  stood  clasped, 
unhappy,  and  yet  supremely  blest ;  then  Gilbert  untwined  his 
arms  from  around  Beatrice,  her  hands  fell  loosely  by  her  sides — 
he  walked  away,  not  daring  to  look  back— and  he  left  her  there, 
standing  alone  and  forsaken  on  the  skirt  of  the  grey  and  silent 
forest. 

As  Beatrice  entered  the  grounds  and  walked  in  the  long  grey 
shadows  of  twilight,  she  saw  the  tall  trees  that  spread  their  arms 
above  the  path,  and  at  the  end  of  it  the  dark  square  mass  and 
lighted  windows  of  her  old  Carnoosie,  and  every  thing  around 
her  seemed  vague  and  unreal.  Love  is  the  great  poem  of  youth, 
even  as  youth  is  the  poem  of  life.  With  some  it  is  a  glorious 
epic,  full  of  disasters  and  noble  enterprises  ;  with  others,  a  tender 
idyll ;  with  others  again,  a  long  lyric  of  lament ;  with  Beatrice, 
it  was  a  dream,  if  not  as  yet  in  tragic  incident,  at  least  in  brev- 


BEATEICE.  24:1 

ity.  A  few  weeks  had  seen  its  birth  and  burial.  A  few  hours 
had  brought  on  its  catastrophe.  She  woke  that  morning  a  be- 
trothed wife,  and  by  sunset  the  crown  of  love  was  lost  beyond  all 
hope,  for  hope  cannot  spring  from  a  mother's  grave.  "  Whilst 
my  darling  lives,  I  am  bound,"  she  thought,  with  a  full  heart. 
"  Let  it  be,  iny  darling,  let  it^be  !  " 

As  she  passed  by  Mr.  Gervoise,  still  smoking  on  the  terrace, 
he  took  out  his  cigar  to  say : 

"  You  are  out  late,  Beatrice." 

"  Yes,  I  had  business  in  the  forest.  Shall  I  tell  you  what  it 
was,  Mr.  Gervoise?"  she  added  defiantly:  "I  went  to  bid  Gil- 
bert good-bye." 

"In  the  forest?" 

"Yes;  there  are  so  many  echoes  in  Carnoosie,  so  many 
doors  that  will  not  shut,  so  many  walls  that  let  the  sound  escape, 
that  I  preferred  the  forest." 

"And  when  is  Gilbert  coming  badk ?"  composedly  asked 
Mr.  Gervoise. 

"  Never,  Mr.  Gervoise — and  you  know  why." 

He  did  know  why.  He  was  himself  the  great  obstacle  to 
the  fulfilment  of  his  own  desire.  The  snare  of  love  which  he 
had  set  for  them  they  had  torn  asunder,  and  they  were  ready  to 
torment  and  vex  their  own  hearts  rather  than  submit  to  him. 
Cordially  did  Mr.  Gervoise  hate  Beatrice  just  then,  and  he  hated 
Gilbert  little  less.  The  rebel  before  him  he  could  sting,  and  he 
did  so. 

"  Very  true,"  he  replied.  "  I  know  why.  Gilbert  will  not 
marry  you.  One  brother  you  would  not  have,  and  the  other  will 
not  have  you." 

It  humbled  Beatrice  that  she  felt  this  taunt ;  but  if  she  felt 
it,  she  scorned  to  show  it.  She  turned  to  the  house.  Mr.  Ger- 
voise stopped  and  said  in  an  altered  tone  : 

"  You  do  not  know  how  to  manage,  Beatrice.  Let  him  come 
back,  and  let  us  have  Antony,  and  you  will  see  if  Gilbert  will 
not  submit." 

Beatrice  shook  him  off  as  if  he  had  been  an  insect,  and  look- 
ing the  disgust  she  felt,  she  walked  on.  Mr.  Gervoise  looked 
after  her,  and  listening  to  her  quick  imperious  little  feet  pattering 
on  the  gravel,  he  muttered  to  himself:  "  I  will  humble  you  yet, 
my  lady." 

Alas  !  she  was  sore  and  humbled  enough,  as  she  sat  with  her 
mother  looking  out  at  the  terrace,  which  was  white  again  in  the 
moonlight.  The  fountains  splashed  pleasantly  in  the  silence  of 
11 


242  BEATRICE. 

the  night,  and  now  and  then  the  nightingale  gave  forth  her  song. 
Mrs.  Gervoise  remembered  her  youth,  her  first  happy  marriage, 
and  thought  of"  Beatrice's  coming  happiness  with  a  sigh  over  her 
own  wasted  life.  And  Beatrice  thought  of  Gilbert  with  keen  and 
deep  sorrow,  but  hers  was  the  sadness  of  youth :  the  future  was 
still  before  her — ^the  future  that  held  in  her  hand  happiness  with 
a  golden  glow,  or  noble,  sorrows  almost  better  than  happiness. 

But  the  night  which  often  tells  us  back  the  story  of  the  day, 
does  not  always  tell  it  in  the  language  of  our  hopes  and  wishes. 
Beatrice  had  many  dreams  that  night — dreams  eventful  and 
strange.  She  saw  endless  forests,  with  endless  avenues,  up  and 
down  which  she  went,  ever  seeking  and  never  finding  Gilbert. 
She  saw  wide  plains,  along  which  she  followed  him,  footsore  and 
weary,  and  still  in  vain ;  seas  blue  and  stormy,  across  which  she 
sailed,  following  a  ship  with  white  and  bird-like  wings  outspread 
on  the  far  horizon,  and  which  she  never  reached.  When  she 
returned  to  her  own  Carnoosie,  it  was  the  same,  and  not  the  same. 
The  rooms  were  large,  old,  and  dreary.  She  wandered  over 
them  uneasily,  seeking  Gilbert.  She  did  not  see  him,  but  she 
heard  his  footsteps  in  the  old  chambers,  and  the  sound  of  the 
closing  and  opening  doors,  until  she  had  gone  over  them  all,  and 
found  herself  in  the  silent  and  lonely  garden.  When  Beatrice 
looked  back  toward  the  house  she  had  left,  she  perceived  that  it 
had  lost  its  solid  proportions.  It  was  no  longer  a  brick  and  tim- 
ber mass,  standing  square  and  dark  against  the  evening  sky.  It 
was  a  broad,  immense  web,  through  which  she  saw  the  pale 
moon  shining,  and  in  the  centre  of  which  she  recognized  Mr. 
Gervoise  as  a  gigantic  spider,  stretching  out  his  long  thin  arms 
and  legs  to  seize  his  victims.  Horror  and  disgust  made  Beatrice 
waken.  She  started  up  in  her  bed,  and  saw  the  moon  shining  on 
the  floor,  and  heard  the  fountain  splashing  in  its  basin.  Once  more 
she  remembered  that  evening  in  her  childhood  when  her  mother 
came  to  kiss  and  comfort  her,  and  Beatrice  promised  to  shield  and 
defend  that  weak  and  yielding  parent.  Ah,  Carnoosie  was  a  web 
she  could  not  break.  She  might  flutter  in  its  meshes  ;  they  held 
her  fast — ay,  Gilbert  was  right  enough.  They  were  divided :  a 
stream  deep  as  a  sea  flowed  between  them,  and  they  stood  sad 
and  apart  on  either  shore. 


\ 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 

On  a  bright  summer  morning  Beatrice  received  her  mother's 
tearful  congratulations  :  she  was  twenty-one  that  day.  The  day 
went  past  almost  unnoticed  in  Camoosie  ;  no  joyous  peals  of  bells, 
no  village  rejoicings,  ushered  in  the  majority  of  the  wealthy  girl. 
A  peasant  maiden  was  never  made  twenty-one  by  time  with  less 
ceremony  than  Beatrice  Gordon.  Her  coming  freedom  brought 
her  no  joy  ;  whilst  her  mother  lived,  she  was  still  Mr.  Gervoise's 
slave  ;  moreover  she  knew  that  a  contest  was  imminent  between 
them,  and  though  she  would  not  fear  it,  it  gave  her  a  touch  of 
gravity. 

They  met  at  breakfast.  Nothing  could  exceed  the  dignified 
suavity  of  Mr.  Gervoise's  manner.  When  the  meal  was  over, 
he  formally  requested  her  to  step  into  his  study,  and  settle  a  few 
accounts. 

"  Thank  you,"  quietly  replied  Beatrice,  "  I  am  not  accus- 
tomed to  these  matters,  it  is  useless  for  me  to  begin  now." 

"  Excuse  me,  it  is  quite  necessary." 

"  But  I  would  rather  not,"  she  persisted,  playing  with  her  spoon. 

"  Miss  Gordon,  your  trust  in  me  is  but  natural,"  remarked 
Mr.  Gervoise,  in  his  grand  way,  "  but  it  is  not  business.  I  must 
request  you  to  look  over  these  accounts  with  me." 

"  No,  I  really  cannot,"  said  Beatrice  again  ;  "  I  should  hate 
the  trouble  too  much." 

But  still  Mr.  Gervoise  insisted.  She  might  hate  the  trouble, 
but  for  his  sake  she  must  submit  to  it. 

''  Have  your  way,  then,  Mr.  Gervoise,"  said  Beatrice,  rising 
as  she  spoke  ;  "  my  solicitor  will  be  here  this  afternoon,  you  can 
settle  accounts  with  him." 

Mr.  Gervoise  looked  petrified.  He  had  not  expected  so  de- 
cisive a  proceeding. 

"  Miss  Gordon,"  he  stammered,  "  may  I  know  your  mean- 
ing?" 

"  I  have  no  meaning  save  that  I  hate  accounts,  and  being 


244 


BEATRICE. 


rich  enough  to  indulge  myself  with  a  solicitor,  I  wrote  to  Lon- 
don for  one.  Mr.  Lamb  will  come  this  afternoon,  and  he  will 
understand  your  explanations  much  better  than  I  could,  I  am 
sure." 

Perhaps  Mr.  Gervoise  did  not  care  to  be  so  well  understood, 
for  he  looked  deeply  incensed,  and  showed  his  resentment. 

"  Miss  Gordon,"  he  said,  "  I  was  prepared  for  your  ingrati- 
tude, not  for  your  insolence — ^to  this  I  will  not  submit.  I  can- 
not settle  in  one  afternoon  the  accounts  of  years." 

"  Oh !  but  he  will  stay  a  week  if  you  like  it,"  interrupted 
Beatrice.  "  He  shall  not  leave  Carnoosie  until  every  thing  is  ar- 
ranged to  your  satisfaction." 

This  did  not  mend  matters,  but  Mr.  Gervoise  had  his  revenge 
at  hand. 

"  Mrs.  Gervoise,"  he  said,  rising  and  addressing  his  wife 
without  giving  Beatrice  a  look,  "you  will  please  to  get  your 
trunks  ready,  we  leave  Carnoosie  as  soon  as  I  have  settled  ac- 
counts with  Miss  Gordon's  lawyer." 

Mrs.  Gervoise  gave  Beatrice  a  piteous  look,  but  Beatrice's 
eyes  were  fastened  on  the  blue  distance  visible  through  the  open 
window,  and  her  countenance  remained  unmoved.  Mr.  Gervoise 
guessed  that,  whilst  he  was  present  his  wife  was  powerless,  so 
he  majestically  left  the  room.  At  once  Mrs.  Gervoise  burst  into 
hysterical  tears. 

"  Darling  I "  exclaimed  Beatrice  in  a  tone  of  reproachful 
surprise. 

"  Oh  !  Beatrice,  he  will  do  it ! " 

"  Never,  until  I  turn  him  out,"  replied  Beatrice,  with  a  calm 
scorn  ;  "  and  need  I  tell  you  that  he  is  safe  whilst  he  has  you. 
Let  him  live  in  Carnoosie,  and  drink  my  wines,  and  pay  Monsieur 
Panel  the  salary  of  a  professor  in  a  university  out  of  my  pocket, 
what  do  I  care  so  I  have  you,  my  darling !  " 

She  knelt  at  her  mother's  feet  while  she  spoke,  and,  fondly 
clasping  Mrs.  Gervoise's  waist  with  her  hands,  she  looked  up 
tenderly  in  her  face — "  I  tell  you  he  has  no  thought  of  going," 
she  said  again,  "  none.  It  is  a  threat — ^but  I  know  him  too  well 
to  be  deceived.  Why,  darling,  what  is  the  point  at  issue  between 
us  but  this  same  Carnoosie,  which  he  is  always  afraid  of  losing? 
For  that  he  wanted  me  to  marry  Antony,  for  that  he  brqke  off 
my  marriage  with  Gilbert.  He  does  not  know  me,  or  rather  he 
is  afraid  of  surviving  you  and  of  being  left  poor,  naked,  and 
mean,  as  he  would  be  still  if  he  had  never  married  you,  my  dar- 
ling." 


BEATRICE.  246 

Her  eyes  flashed  with  indignation  and  scorn  as  she  spoke, 
but  Mrs.  Gervoise  almost  pushed  her  away,  and  looked  more 
frightened  than  touched. 

"  Hush  ! "  she  said  nervously,  "  hush  ! " 

Beatrice  rose  with  a  sigh.  "  Oh !  darling,"  she  thought, 
*'  you  do  not  love  me  as  I  love  you.  I  am  alone — for  ever  alone 
now !  " 

In  the  course  of  the  afternoon  Mr.  Lamb  arrived.  He  was 
a  sharp,  shrewd-looking  man,  and,  as  she  received  him  in  the 
library,  Beatrice  thought  he  resembled  the  fox  infinitely  more 
than  the  meek  animal  whose  name  he  bore.  Mr.  Lamb  gave  his 
young  client  a  quiet  look,  and  asked  for  her  instructions.  Bea- 
trice gave  them  briefly,  clearly,  and  openly. 

"  My  late  friend,  Mr.  Ray,"  she  said,  "  assured  me  that  I 
should  find  a  safe  adviser  in  you.  I  will  not  disguise  the  plain 
truth  from  you,  Mr.  Lamb,  I  need  such  an  adviser.  I  have  been 
a  rich  minor  many  years  ;  one  of  my  two  trustees  has  been  dead 
several  months,  and  the  other  is  my  guardian  and  stepfather." 

"  Was  no  other  trustee  provided  on  the  death  of  the  first?" 
asked  Mr.  Lamb. 

"  None  ;  and  I  confess  I  wish  to  draw  your  attention  espe- 
cially to  the  transactions  of  the  last  six  months  or  so.  I  must 
also  request  you,  when  you  have  done  with  Mr.  Gervoise,  to  lay 
before  me  as  clear  and  exact  an  account  of  my  property  as  you 
can,  also  to  advise  me  concerning  what  retrenchment  may  be 
necessary.  I  am  also  sure  that  I  am  deep  in  debt,  and  I  object 
to  remaining  so." 

"  A  shrewd  young  lady,"  thought  Mr.  Lamb,  little  suspecting 
that  Beatrice  had  for  the  last  week  weighed  every  word  she  now 
uttered. 

"  I  have  but  one  remark  to  add,"  continued  Beatrice  ;  "  Mr. 
Gervoise  was  not  aware  of  your  coming ;  he  will  not  be  hur- 
ried— ^be  so  kind  as  not  to  hurry  him,  and  yet  to  stay  until  the 
last  matter  is  made  clear.  I  am  not  used  to  business,"  she  re- 
marked with  a  smile,  ' '  and  the  least  obscurity  would  throw  me  out." 

Mr.  Lamb  smiled  too,  for  of  course  he  knew  her  meaning, 
but  he  merely  expressed  himself  both  willing  and  ready  to  com- 
ply with  her  wishes. 

"  Oh  !  it  is  late  to-day,"  replied  Beatrice,  "  pray  rest  from 
your  journey.     To-morrow  will  do  for  us,  if  it  wiU  do  for  you." 

It  so  happened  that  Mr.  Lamb  had  time  to  spare  just  then,  so 
it  was  agreed  that  the  business  which  brought  him  should  not 
begin  until  the  next  day.     In  the  meanwhile,  Mr.  Lamb,  instead 


24:6  BEATRICE. 

of  resting,  thought  he  would  like  to  take  a  walk.  Beatrice  ac- 
companied him  to  the  edge  of  the  grounds,  and  Mr.  Gervoise, 
who  was  sitting  in  his  study  surrounded  by  papers,  had  the  satis- 
faction of  seeing  Mr.  Lamb  start  on  what  was  evidently  a  recon- 
noitering  expedition. 

They  met  at  dinner.  Mr.  Gervoise  was  formal  and  dignified ; 
Mr.  Lamb  was  easy,  and  now  and  then  jovial.  He  had  a  very 
keen  face,  but  with  it  too  he  had  a  bright  brown  eye,  with  a 
watery  gleam  in  it,  which,  with  the  tip  of  Mr.  Lamb's  nose, 
greatly  relieved  Mr.  Gervoise's  anxiety.  He  was  on  his  guard 
whilst  the  ladies  remained,  but  when  they  had  left  the  dining- 
room,  he  began  to  fill  Mr.  Lamb's  glass  with  suspicious  cor- 
diality. Mr.  Lamb's  heart  was  one  accessible  to  good  cheer ;  it 
was  not  his  luck  to  sit  down  every  day  to  such  fare  as  M.  Panel 
sent  up.  He  seldom  tasted  such  wines  as  those  Beatrice's  cellar 
afforded,  for  once  therefore  he  indulged  himself ;  he  gulped  down 
platefuls  of  exquisite  fricassees^  he  tossed  down  glasses  of  match- 
less Burgundy  or  unrivalled  Bordeaux — for  Mr.  Gervoise  had 
given  private  orders,  and  treated  him  to  princely  vintages — with 
a  facility  which  charmed  and  pained  Mr.  Gervoise.  It  was  de- 
lightful to  see  this  cunning  lawyer  so  easily  hooked,  but  it  was 
awful  to  watch  the  costly  wines  going  down  at  so  rapid  a  rate* 
Every  glass  Mr.  Lamb  took  filled  Mr.  Gervoise  with  sorrow, 
and  but  for  the  wise  proverb,  "  Throw  a  sprat  to  catch  a  salmon," 
he  could  never  have  gone  through  the  bitter  ordeal.  When  Mr. 
Lamb's  eyes  grew  so  moist,  however,  that  Mr.  Gervoise  thought 
his  purpose  attained,  and  the  deepening  ruby  of  the  attorney's 
nose  strengthened  the  belief,  Beatrice's  guardian  kindly  suggested 
that  they  should  adjourn  to  the  study,  with  a  couple  of  glasses 
and  a  bottle  to  keep  them  company,  and  there  have  a  preliminary 
talk  about  business.  To  this  proposal  Mr.  Lamb  gave  a  jovial 
and  ready  assent,  adding  the  pleasant  remark,  that  he  felt  equal 
to  any  thing  just  then.  Mr.  Gervoise  thought  he  looked  equal 
to  the  chivalrous  achievements  of  wrenching  off  knockers,  ring- 
ing door-bells,  pushing  about  policemen,  and  other  gentle  freaks, 
with  which  he  had  probably  been  conversant  some  twenty  years 
before,  but  not  apprehending  personal  danger,  he  took  up  one  of 
the  silver  pAndlesticks  on  the  table,  and  with  the  kindest  considera- 
tion for  Mr.  Lamb's  evidently  unsteady  steps,  he  assisted  him 
into  the  study,  gently  pushing  him  into  a  deep  chair  near  the 
table,  and  very  carefully  closing  the  door. 

"  And  now,"  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  sitting  down  on  the  other 
side  of  the  table,  "  I  think  we  shall  make  ourselves  comfortable.'* 


BEATRICE.  247 

"  Oh !  dear  yes,"  replied  Mr.  Lamb ;  and  with  amiable 
alacrity  he  poured  himself  out  a  glass  of  wine,  and  drank  it  off 
at  once. 

"  He  is  a  drunkard,"  thought  Mr.  Gervoise,  who  sipped  and 
tasted,  and  never  swallowed  down  in  this  wholesale  fashion  ;  "  a 
low  English  drunkard  ;  I  shall  give  him  gin  to-morrow." 

We  will  not  vouch  for  Mr.  Lamb's  sobriety,  his  watery  eyes 
and  that  red  tip  to  his  nose  warn  us  to  be  careful,  but  we  will  say 
this :  inebriety  varies  with  the  individuals  who  indulge  in  it. 
Some  orators  are  most  eloquent  when  they  are  tipsy.  Some 
great  poets  are  never  greater  than  when  they  have  been  drink- 
ing, and  some  men  of  business  are  never  keener  than  at  the  time 
when  other  men  are  unable  to  stand.  To  these  Mr.  Lamb  be- 
longed, as  Mr.  Gervoise  found  to  his  sorrow.  No  sooner  did 
they  enter  on  business,  no  sooner  did  Mr.  Gervoise  imprudently 
open  a  few  accounts,  than  this  woL?  in  sheep's  clothing  showed 
himself  in  his  true  light.  He  became  keen,  cool,  bitter,  and 
withal  somewhat  fierce.  He  hunted  Mr.  Gervoise  about — we 
speak  figuratively,  of  course — with  as  little  remorse  as  if  the  pur- 
suit of  such  human  game  were  the  pleasantest  thing  in  life.  No 
flimsy  explanations,  no  hollow  excuses,  would  satisfy  him.  He 
would  have  the  why  and  the  wherefore,  and  this  was  often  the 
most  awkward  thing  for  Mr.  Gervoise.  In  short,  the  poor  gen- 
tleman was  fairly  driven  into  a  corner,  and  he  asked  for  mercy, 
or  at  least  for  a  respite. 

"  I  think  it  will  do  for  this  evening,"  he  said  faintly ;  "  shall 
we  join  the  ladies,  Mr.  Lamb  ?  " 

"  Let  us  finish  the  bottle  first,"  replied  Mr.  Lamb,  with  a 
knowing  wink. 

He  poured  himself  out  a  glass.  It  was  Chambertin,  the  Im- 
perial wine,  the  wine  of  Marengo  and  Austerlitz,  the  wine  of  a 
hundred  epic  victories  ;  and  he,  the  low  pettifogger,  drank  it,  in- 
solently winking  at  Mr.  Gervoise  all  the  time. 

"  Make  much  of  it,"  grimly  thought  Mr.  Gervoise  ;  "  you  shall 
get  none  to-morrow." 

Mr.  Lamb,  who  probably  suspected  this,  did  make  much  of 
it,  and  he  made  love  to  the  bottle  until  it  had  no  more  favours 
and  graces  to  bestow ;  then  like  a  faithless  lover  he  put  down  his 
empty  glass  and  expressed  his  perfect  readiness  to  join  the  ladies. 
But  the  ladies  had  got  tired  with  waiting,  and  had  retired  for  the 
night ;  so  Mr.  Gervoise  had  the  delightful  task  of  keeping  Mr. 
Lamb  company  for  the  rest  of  the  evening. 


248  "  BEATEICE. 

Mr.  Lamb  remained  five  days  in  Camoosie,  days  of  mortifi- 
cation and  penance  for  Mr.  Gervoise  ;  and  when  the  weary  task 
was  over,  Beatrice's  stepfather  had  lost  some  of  the  best  feathers 
in  his  wing.  Mr.  Lamb  sober  proved  as  great  a  torment  as  Mr. 
Lamb  tipsy,  and  seemed  bent  on  Mr.  Gervoise's  undoing.  But 
oh  the  fifth  day  the  lawyer's  business  in  Carnoosie  was  at  an  end, 
and  he  took  leave  of  Beatrice  in  the  library,  where  she  had  re- 
ceived him  on  the  day  of  his  arrival. 

"  Mr.  Lamb,"  she  began,  giving  him  a  shrewd  look,  "  I  want 
to  know  every  thing,  please." 

"  Every  thing  would  take  a  very  long  time  to  tell,  Miss  Gor- 
don, and  an  epitome  will  answer  your  purpose." 

^'  How  much  do.  I  owe  !  "  asked  Beatrice. 

"  Three  thousand  five  hundred  and  six  pounds  odd,  exclusive 
of  the  mortgage's,  of  course.  Wine  is  in  for  a  heavy  item.  You 
have  consumed  a  large  quantity  of  expensive  French  wines  dur- 
ing your  minority,  Miss  Gordon." 

"  I  shall  brew  my  own  beer  and  drink  it  henceforth,"  replied 
Beatrice  smiling. 

"  You  have  also  purchased  some  articles  of  virtu,  and  paid 
dear  for  them,"  continued  Mr.  Lamb ;  "  but  you  can  see  it  all 
set  forth  in  this  sheet  of  foolscap.  It  is  above  six  thousand 
pounds,  but  I  detected  some  errors  which  had  escaped  Mr.  Ger- 
voise, and  we  cut  it  down.  And  now  a  piece  of  advice,  Miss 
Gordon,"  added  Mr.  Lamb,  looking  hard  at  her,  "  be  careful 
how  you  purchase,  and  from  whom  ;  be  sure  that  you  deal  with 
the  real  dealer,  and  not  with  some  unknown  person  selling  under 
a  fictitious  name." 

"  Yes,  I  shall  be  careful,"  replied  Beatrice,  a  little  bitterly ; 
" is  there  any  money  owing  to  me,  Mr.  Lamb?"  she  asked  after 
a  while. 

"  Part  of  your  income  is  due  in  September." 

"  Mr.  Lamb,  we  must  go  over  this  together ;  I  must  know 
what  I  am  worth,  and  how  I  am  to  save  and  spend." 

The  Camoosie  estate  was  not  a  very  complicated  one.  It  con- 
sisted of  large  farms,  each  bringing  in  a  net  income ;  but  Mr. 
Carnoosie  had  left  mortgages,  not  one  of  which  had  been  paid  off, 
and  Beatrice's  property,  instead  of  increasing  in  value,  had  les- 
sened considerably,  for  some  of  the  leases  had  been  renewed  by 
her  trustees  on  such  low  terms  that  she  was  struck  with  the  fact. 
She  looked  at  Mr.  Lamb  and  asked  him  to  explain  it. 

"  There  is  no  cure  for  it  now,"  was  his  reply ;  "  your  trus- 
tees did  this  a  feAv  months  ago,  and  you  must  submit." 


BEATEICE.  249 

"But  why  was  it  done?  What  interest  could  my  trustees, 
could  any  trustees,  have  in  letting  these  farms  so  cheap  ?  " 

Mr.  Lamb  was  silent. 

"  I  put  a  general  question,  you  can  give  a  general  reply," 
said  Beatrice. 

"  Prime  ministers  have  been  influenced,  ambassadors  too," 
answered  Mr.  Lamb  ;  "  in  short,  human  nature  is  very  weak." 

"  And  there  is  no  remedy?  " 

"  None,  save  to  exercise  great  discretion ;  not  to  sign  a  scrap 
of  paper,  for  instance,  vnthout  consulting  a  respectable  solicitor." 

Beatrice  was  silent  for  a  while.  When  she  spoke  next,  she 
said — 

"  Do  you  not  think  my  style  of  living  above  my  income?  " 

"  Monsieur  Panel  is  an  expensive  servant."    . 

*'  He  shall  go.  Miss  Jameson  too  must  leave  me.  I  will  be 
frank  with  you,  Mr.  Lamb  ;  I  have  neither  regard  nor  liking  for 
that  lady  ;  I  shall  make  some  provision  for  her,  but  it  need  not 
be  munificent.  I  shall  leave  you  to  settle  that  matter.  I  am  now 
bent  on  saving ;  on  paying  my  debts  firstly  ;  secondly,  on  getting 
rid  of  the  mortgages,  if  I  can." 

"  Quite  right ;  and  now.  Miss  Gordon,  let  me  give  you  a  dis- 
interested piece  of  advice — ^have  a  solicitor  in  the  neighborhood." 

"  No,"  replied  Beatrice,  smiling,  "  that  would  be  dangerous. 
I  must  be  quite  open  with  you,  Mr.  Lamb.  Mr.  Gervoise  is  a 
very  clever  man — a  man  who  succeeds  nine  times  out  of  ten." 

"  He  is  a  very  clever  man,"  admiringly  said  Mr.  Lamb — "  a 
very  clever  man.  It  is  impossible  to  deny  that.  Well,  Miss 
Gordon,  I  will  do  my  best  to  run  down  when  you  want  me,  and 
when  I  cannot  come  I  shall  write ;  but  before  we  dismiss  this 
subject,  allow  me  to  put  a  question  to  you  :  Is  it  absolutely  ne- 
cessary that  Mr.  Gervoise  should  remain  in  Carnoosie  ?  " 

The  attorney's  tone  startled  Beatrice.  She  looked  at  him — 
he  seemed  very  grave,  but  she  was  accustomed  to  the  danger 
which  was  new  to  him,  and  she  calmly  answered : 

"  Whilst  my  mother  lives,  Mr.  Gervoise  must  remain  in  Car- 
noosie." 

"  Then,  Miss  Gordon,  get  married." 

The  colour  steadily  rose  to  Beatrice's  face,  then  slowly  left 
it,  for  the  blood  had  rushed  back  to  her  heart  as  she  remembered 
Gilbert,  but  her  reply  was  sad  and  grave  : 

*'  I  cannot,  Mr.  Lamb." 

A  surgeon  cannot  feel  much  compassion,  it  is  said ;  let  us 
not  wonder  that  a  lawyer's  heart  is  none  of  the  softest.  Still,  so 
11* 


250  BEATRICE. 

far  as  he  could  feel,  Mr.  Lamb  felt  for  Beatrice  as  she  stood 
there  before  him,  proud,  sad,  and  calm — ^young,  handsome,  and 
rich,  but  alone — worse  than  alone,  for  she  was  compelled  to  har- 
bour her  mortal  enemy.  His  experience  of  life  taught  him  that 
in  so  unequal  a  contest  she  must  be  worsted,  and  he  was  sorry  to 
contemplate  her  defeat ;  but  if  she  would  sacrifice  or  risk  safety 
and  happiness  for  her  mother's  sake,  what  could  Mr.  Lamb,  or 
any  one  else,  do  for  her  ? 

"  In  short,"  thought  that  acute  gentleman,  after  they  had 
parted,  "  what  can  you  do  for  a  bird  that  keeps  the  cat  in  its 
cage  ?  " 


^: 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

"With  a  sigh  of  weariness  Beatrice  sank  on  a  chair,  and, 
burying  her  face  in  her  hands,  she  tried  to  collect  her  thoughts, 
and  contemplate  her  dreary  destiny.  The  courage  she  had  shown 
to  Mr.  Lamb  had  forsaken  her ;  she  could  only  think :  "  Ah, 
what  a  hard  lot  is  mine  !  "  It  was  a  very  hard  lot,  a  lot  of  strife 
and  anxiety,  of  solitude  and  watchfulness-;  a  lot  such  as  rarely 
falls  to  youth  and  beauty.  But  Beatrice  was  energetic  and 
strong.  She  would  not  indulge  in  vain  regrets  and  idle  self-pity. 
There  was  much  to  do  yet,  and  she  would  do  it.  She  had  a 
noble  fortune  to  guard  and  redeem ;  she  would  fuhSl  her  task. 
"  He  has  taken  Gilbert  from  me,"  she  thought,  "  and  he  shall 
find  that  I  can  take  something  from  him."  She  roused  herself, 
rang  the  bell,  and  asked  for  Miss  Jameson.  Their  interview  was 
brief,  but  it  ended  in  tears  on  Miss  Jameson's  side ;  for  though 
Beatrice  had  not  uttered  one  word  of  reproach,  the  decree  had 
gone  forth :  Miss  Jameson  must  leave  Carnoosie.  Mrs.  Scot's 
turn  came  next.  That  lady  entered  the  room  stem,  mistrustful, 
and  half  defiant.  She  expected  her  dismissal,  and  having  that 
attachment  for  Carnoosie  which  most  people  who  lived  in  it  con- 
ceived for  that  pleasant  abode,  she  was  agreeably  disappointed 
when  Beatrice  merely  informed  her  that  henceforth  she  was  the 
virtual  as  well  as  the  nominal  mistress  of  the  house,  and  that  to 
her,  and  her  only,  Mrs.  Scot  must  apply  for  orders  and  instruc- 
tions. 

"  I  intend  retrenching,"  she  continued ;  "  Monsieur  Panel  is 
going  to  leave — please  to  get  me  a  good  cook.  Five  servants 
shall  go.     I  shall  keep  seven,  the  oldest  ones,  of  course." 

"  Carnoosie  is  large,  ma'am." 

"  I  shall  make  it  small  by  shutting  up,  if  need  be,"  replied 
Beatrice. 

Mrs.  Scot  looked  grim.  She  liked  Carnoosie,  but  she  hated 
the  very  names  of  retrenchment  and  economy. 

"  Perhaps  seven  servants  will  do,"  she  said  at  length.     "  Mr. 


252  BEATRICE. 

and  Mrs.  Gervoise  are  going  this  eveningj  and  two  persons  less 
will  make  a  difference." 

"  Very  true,"  composedly  remarked  Beatrice,  "  Miss  Jame- 
son, too,  is  going ;  so  you  see  we  can  manage  very  well,  Mrs. 
Scot.     That  will  do  for  to-day,"  she  added,  after  a  pause. 

Mrs.  Scot  withdrew  with  a  stern  curtsey,  and  she  left  her 
mistress,  as  she  meant  to  leave  her,  with  a  thorn  in  her  heart. 

So  Mr.  Gervoise,  who  had  been  ominously  calm  and  silent 
for  the  last  five  days,  still  kept  that  threat  of  taking  her  mother 
away  hanging  over  Beatrice.  She  knew  he  did  not  mean  to  do 
it — that  he  wanted  to  stay,  and  that  he  would  stay,  but  she  did 
not  know  what  concession  he  would  exact  in  return  for  his  yield- 
ing. Her  heart  sickened  at  the  thought  of  the  coming  strife. 
She  leaned  back  in  her  chair.  "  Oh !  Carnoosie,  Camoosie," 
she  thought,  looking  out  of  the  window,  "  how  dear  you  cost 
me ! "  Mr.  Gervoise's  entrance  broke  on  her  thoughts,  and 
roused  her  to  defiance  and  action. 

"  Miss  Gordon,"  he  said,  with  great  dignity,  "  are  you  at 
leisure  ?  "  , 

*'  Certainly,  Mr.  Gervoise  ;  pray  take  a  seat." 

"  Miss  Gordon,  my  share  in  your  concerns  is,  I  am  happy  to 
say,  safely  over.  I  am  no  longer  your  guardian,  I  am  no  longer 
your  trustee.  The  law  puts  you  in  possession  of  your  liberty. 
I  have  no  doubt  that  you  will  use  it  wisely.  Mrs.  Gervoise  and 
myself  trust  in  your  discretion  ;  at  the  same  time,  Beatrice,  allow 
us  to  advise  you  either  to  marry  speedily  or  to  take  a  chaperon 
of  mature  age.     Shall  we  say  Miss  Jameson?" 

"  Miss  Jameson  is  leaving,"  quietly  interrupted  Beatrice. 

"And  what  other  lady,  then,  will  you  have?"  asked  Mr. 
Gervoise. 

Beatrice  smiled  as  she  replied : 

"  My  mother  is  my  best  chaperon." 

" My  dear  Beatrice,"  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  rising,  "you  speak 
too  late.     Look  ! " 

He  opened  the  door  of  the  library  as  he  spoke,  and  showed 
Beatrice  a  row  of  trunks  standing  in  the  hall,  securely  corded, 
and  with  cards  five  inches  square,  on  which  she  read  in  large 
capitals  :  Mr.  Gervoise,  Frai^ce. 

"What  a  prime  minister  that  man  would  have  made  !"  ad- 
miringly thought  Beatrice ;  "  how  he  would  have  worried  or 
coaxed  parliaments  and  outwitted  potentates !  When  do  you 
think  of  going?"  she  asked. 

"  This  very  day,  Miss  Gordon." 


BEATRICE.  253 

Beatrice's  pretty  lips,  and  she  had  an  exquisite  mouth,  curled 
in  dainty  scorn.  She  knew  Mr.  Gervoise  had  no  thought  of 
going,  but  she  was  resolved  to  compel  him  to  ask  to  stay.  "  He 
is  a  serpent,"  she  thought,  "  and  crawl  he  must."  Aloud  she 
said,  looking  out  of  the  window  : 

"  You  will  have  a  rough  passage,  I  fear." 

The  sky  was  stormy  and  wild ;  clouds  chased  each  other 
across  its  grey  plains,  and  the  trees  of  Carnoosie  bent  and  twisted 
to  every  blast. 

"  A  "decidedly  rough  passage,"  continued  Beatrice. 

She  nodded  lightly  to  him,  and  carelessly  left  the  library. 
But  the  triumph  on  which  Beatrice  reckoned  eluded  her  once 
more.  If  Mr.  Gervoise  was  a  serpent,  he  had  one  of  the  ser- 
pent's attributes :  he  was  slippery.  No  more  this  time  than 
many  a  time  before  could  Beatrice's  slender  fingers  grasp  him. 
Before  the  afternoon  was  out,  Beatrice's  mother  was  alarmingly 
ill,  so  Mr.  Gervoise  said,  and  Beatrice's  fears  confirmed  it.  She 
felt  sure  that  he  had  caused  this  sudden  attack,  but  how  she 
could  not  imagine,  and  her  timid  mother  did  not  dare  to  teU. 

"  Don't  ask  me,  Beatrice,"  she  entreated,  "  don't.  Only  I 
cannot  go,  indeed  I  cannot." 

"  Darling,  you  shall  not.  Even  if  I  were  to  beg  it  of  him  on 
my  knees." 

And  almost  on  her  knees  had  Beatrice  to  ask  Mr.  Gervoise 
to  remain. 

"  No,  Miss  Gordon,"  he  said  curtly  ;  "we  do  not  get  on  well 
together,  and  we  must  part." 

"  My  mother  cannot  travel,  sir,  and  she  shall  not." 

"  Miss  Gordon,  this  will  not  do  ;  you  want  to  bully  me,  but 
this  will  not  do." 

"  Mr.  Gervoise,"  said  Beatrice  moodily,  "  I  love  my  mother 
dearly,  but  remember  that,  if  you  take  her  from  me,  I  can  marry 
Gilbert  to-morrow.  Remember  it,  I  say,  and  do  not  drive  me 
to  despair — do  not,  if  you  wish  to  stay." 

"  Miss  Gordon,  if  I  stay,  I  will  have  full  authority  in  this 
house." 

"Never!"  replied  Beatrice,  almost  sternly.  "Never! 
Twelve  weary  years  have  I  been  your  slave,  but  I  am  free  now." 

Mr.  Gervoise  looked  scared. 

"  May  I  ask  in  what  light  you  wish  me  to  remain,  then?" 

"  As  my  guest,  certainly  not  as  master.  As  my  guest — for 
my  mother's  sake,  Mr.  Gervoise." 

He  knit  his  brows,  and  thought  a  while. 


254  BEATBICE. 

"  Miss  Gordon,"  he  said,  in  a  calm  but  dogged  tone,  "  I  will 
stay  for  your  mother's  sake,  but  on  one  condition,  and  I  warn 
you  beforehand  that  from  that  condition  nothing  shall  make  me 
swerve.  You  have  spoken  of  dismissing  a  person  from  this 
house.    I  insist  that  this  person  shall  remain  as  long  as  I  please." 

Beatrice  gave  him  a  doubtful  look.  What  did  he  want  with 
Miss  Jameson  ?  She  knew  that  her  mother  cherished  a  feeble 
jealousy  against  that  poor  lady,  but  Beatrice  had  ever  thought 
the  feeling  unfounded ;  and  yet  could  Mr.  Gervoise  be  guilty  of 
a  kind  and  generous  action !  He  was  considerate  enough  to 
undeceive  her. 

"If  M.  Panel  does  not  remain,  I  leave,"  he  said  senten- 
tiously.  "  He  knows  how  to  bleed — and  I  need  him  in  the 
house  as  a  safeguard  against  apoplexy." 

Beatrice  smiled  scornfully  at  her  momentary  error. 

"  Let  M.  Panel  stay,"  she  said.  "  I  will  do  more.  I  will 
give  up  the  cellar  to  you,  Mr.  Gervoise  ;  but  be  careful  of  it,  for 
it  shall  not  be  replenished  in  a  hurry." 

With  this  taunt,  which  neither  mortified  nor  humbled  her 
enemy,  Beatrice  left  him  and  went  back  to  her  mother. 

"  You  shall  stay,  darling,"  she  whispered  softly ;  "  and  stay 
for  ever." 

The  fear  of  going  had  made  Mrs.  Gervoise  ill,  the  certainty 
of  staying  cured  her  rapidly,  or  at  least  brought  her  back  to  that 
languid  state  of  sickliness  which  was  habitual  to  her.  M.  Panel 
remained,  and  Miss  Jameson  left,  after  a  vain  appeal  to  Mr. 
Gervoise,  who  regretted  he  could  not  interfere.  Three  servants 
were  dismissed  instead  of  five,  as  Beatrice  had  intended ;  and 
thus  balked  in  her  plans  of  retrenchment,  she  began  her  new  life 
as  the  mistress  of  Carnoosie.  Alas  !  that  new  life  was  not  such 
as  Beatrice  had  once  pictured  it.  She  sent  away  her  maid, 
knowing  she  was  only  a  spy,  and  did  without  one,  knowing,  too, 
that  she  could  keep  none  faithful ;  she  got  a  carriage  for  her 
mother,  and  they  took  drives  in  the  country ;  and  she  paid  no 
visits  and  received  none.  The  balls,  the  society,  the  pleasure 
she  had  once  longed  for,  were  now  no  longer  desired  by  Beatrice. 
The  future  had  become  present,  and  not  kept  one  of  its  promises, 
and  this  was  sad ;  and,  sadder  still,  Beatrice,  absorbed  in  one 
bitter  regret,  did  not  care. 

From  this  torpor  unexpected  events  soon  roused  her.  Bea- 
trice was  reading  the  Times  in  her  room  one  morning,  when  she 
heard  Antony's  voice  on  the  terrace.  She  had  not  invited  him  ; 
why  had  he  come  ?    Of  course  his  father  had  asked  him.    "  Well, 


BEATEICE.  255 

what  need  I  care  now?"  she  thought,  and  she  took  up  the  paper 
again. 

Beatrice  was  very  fond  of  the  Times.  It  was  to  her  the 
great  world  from  which  she  was  virtually  shut  out.  She  would 
not  weary  of  its  close-printed  columns,  full  of  information  so 
complete  and  so  varied.  She  read  the  long  debates,  the  prolix 
accounts  of  trials,  the  police  reports,  the  daily  news  domestic 
and  foreign  ;  and  she  felt  like  one  who  hears  far  inland  the  wild 
roar  of  the  ocean.  But  for  once  these  fascinating  sheets  had  lost 
their  charm,  for  Beatrice  kept  thinking,  "  How  dare  that  man 
bring  his  son  here  !     How  dare  he  ! " 

She  impatiently  threw  down  the  newspaper,  put  on  her  hat 
and  walked  out.  She  saw  no  one  until  she  reached  the  orchard  ; 
but  scarcely  had  she  walked  ten  steps  along  its  grassy  paths, 
above  which  the  boughs  of  young  apple-trees  crossed  and  met, 
when  Mr.  Gervoise's  younger  son  appeared  before  her. 

They  exchanged  a  greeting  haughty  on  Beatrice's  side,  sub- 
missive on  his. 

"  You  told  me  to  go  away,  and  I  went,"  he  said,  recalling 
their  last  parting. 

"  Very  true ;  but  you  have  come  back,  and  I  had  not  bar- 
gained for  that." 

"  You  are  hard,"  said  Antony. 

"  Very.  And  it  is  astonishing,  considering  that  I  was  locked 
up  in  order  to  make  me  more  amiable." 

"  Locked  up  !  if  I  had  known  that " 

"  You  would  have  done  nothing,"  she  interrupted ;  "  how- 
ever, I  wiU  tell  you  the  means  I  used  to  ensure  my  liberty,  as 
they  will  give  you  the  depth  of  my  resolve  and  the  measure  of 
my  liking  for  you." 

She  paused,  and  looked  full  at  him  with  her  bright  young 
eyes. 

"  Well,  and  what  did  you  do?"  he  asked. 

"  What  wild  things  do  from  the  meanest  to  the  mightiest ;  I 
would  not  eat,  and  so  got  my  liberty." 

"  You  did  not  eat ! "  said  Antony,  looking  shocked. 

"  Not  a  morsel.  You  would  not  have  done  that.  Well,  it 
was  not  pleasant.  The  memory  of  that  day,  with  the  untasted 
food  lying  on  my  table  in  my  room,  in  my  own  house,  is  not 
pleasant.  It  is  not  pleasant  to  remember  that  I  owe  that  day  to 
you.     So,  if  you  please,  let  us  meet  as  little  as  we  can." 

She  bowed,  and,  without  waiting  for  a  reply,  left  him.  She 
went  to  her  mother's  room.     Perhaps  she  thought  to  find  Mr. 


256  ;  '  BEATRICE. 

Gervoise  there,  and  in  her  present  mood  their  meeting  would 
scarcely  have  been  one  of  peace ;  but  it  was  not  to  be ;  Mrs. 
Gervoise's  companion  was  only  Doctor  Rogerson. 

Beatrice  had  never  liked  him  much  ;  and  as  a  child  she  had 
been  rude  and  overbearing  with  him,  but  as  a  girl  she  changed 
her  manner  toward  this  poor  gentleman.  She  knew  that  he  had 
a  sickly  wife,  a  large  family,  scanty  means,  and  heavy  cares,  and 
she  pitied  him,  and  was  ever  courteous  and  considerate  toward 
him.  She  now  gave  him  the  hand  she  had  not  extended  to 
Antony,  and  inquired  how  Mrs.  E-ogerson  and  the  children  were. 

"  Pretty  well.  Miss  Gordon y  thank  you  ! "  replied  Doctor 
Rogerson,  in  his  low,  nervous  voice;  "you  are  too  kind,  but 
they  are  pretty  well." 

"  And  how  do  you  find  mamma  to-day  ?  " 

"  Much  better,  I  am  happy  to  say." 

Beatrice's  bright  face  brightened  again  as  she  heard  him. 

"  Miss  Gordon,"  hesitatingly  resumed  Doctor  Rogerson,  "  I 
have  a  great  favour  to  ask  of  you.  Mr.  Antony  Gervoise  has 
returned,  would  you  kindly  make  interest  with  him  for  me.  My 
lease  of  the  cottage  is  nearly  out ;  Mr.  Gervoise  spoke  of  raising 
the  rent,  and  my  wife  is  nearly  distracted  at  the  thought  of  leav- 
ing it." 

He  gave  Beatrice  a  shy,  yet  searching  look.  He  knew  what 
the  whole  world  knew — what  does  not  the  world  know  ? — ^that 
his  young  landlord  was  very  sweet  on  the  mistress  of  Carnoosie, 
and  therefore  he  asked  her  to  plead  his  cause. 

"  I  am  powerless,"  said  Beatrice,  at  once  ;  "  even  Mr.  An- 
tony Gervoise,  though  your  landlord,  would  not  grant  your  re- 
quest. He  leaves  all  those  matters  to  his  father.    Apply  to  him." 

Doctor  Rogerson  sighed  wearily.  Did  she  think  Mr.  Ger- 
voise would  renew  the  lease  ? 

"  Try,"  she  answered  cheerfully,  unwilling  to  take  hope  from 
that  poor  pitiful  Doctor  Rogerson ;  "I  see  him  in  the  flower- 
garden." 

Doctor  Rogerson  rose,  fumbled  at  his  gloves,  and  went  out 
with  a  sigh.  He  thought  how  easy  it  was  for  Miss  Gordon  to 
talk  so,  and  how  hard  it  was  for  him  to  go  and  meet  Mr.  Ger- 
voise on  such  an  errand.  He  found  him  near  one  of  the  foun- 
tains, looking  quite  benignantly  at  the  dancing  water. 

"  How  do  you  do.  Doctor  Rogerson?  and  how  is  Mrs.  Roger- 
son  ?     Pretty  well,  I  hope — and  how  is  Mrs.  Gervoise  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Gervoise  is  improving,  I  am  happy  to  say ;    Mrs. 


BEATRICE.  267 

Rogerson  is  not  very  well,  and,  indeed,  I  came  to  you  on  the 
subject  of  that  cottage.     It  is  troubling  her  mind  so." 

"  Cottage  ! — :what  cottage?"  asked  Mr.  Gervoise  ;  "  you  do 
not  mean  to  say  it  is  yours,  Doctor  Rogerson  ?  Do  not  tell  me 
that  you  have  been  troubling  yourself  about  that — do  not ! " 

Doctor  Rogerson  coloured  with  pleasure. 

"Then  I  may  hope  for  a  lease,"  he  said,  with  imprudent 
eagerness.  ^ 

"  Certainly  not — I  grant  no  leases  until  my  son  takes  on  him- 
self, as  I  hope  he  will  soon  do,  the  management  of  his  own  prop- 
erty. But  what  of  that  ?  Can't  you  stay  in  the  meanwhile.  Doc- 
tor Rogerson  ?    Am  I  the  man  to  send  you  away  ?  " 

Doctor  Rogerson  could  not  speak  his  thanks  ;  his  gratitude 
overpowered  him.  Without  seeming  to  see  DoctoiP^Rogerson's 
agitated  face,  Mr.  Gervoise  said,  insinuatingly : 

"  Doctor  Rogerson,  we  are  neighbours,  let  us  be  open  and 
neighbourly.  Are  you  short  of  money?  Mrs.  Rogerson  is  deli- 
cate, you  have  a  large  family,  would  you  like  me  to  advance  you, 
say  twenty  pounds?  What  is  it? — a  trifle ;  no  thanks.  Mrs. 
Gervoise  is  so  delicate  that  I  am  sorry  to  say  you  will  always 
have  the  means  of  repaying  me  without  putting  your  hand  into 
your  pocket. 

Doctor  Rogerson  looked  startled,  surprised,  and  flurried.  He 
stammered ;  it  was  plain  he  longed  to  accept,  though  shame 
made  him  decline. 

"Pooh,  pooh,  nonsense!"  said  Mr.  Gervoise;  "twenty 
pounds  is  a  trifle,  let  us  say  no  more  about  it." 

He  waved  his  hand  in  graceful  denial  of  possible  rejection. 
A  little  further  coversation  ensued,  and  Dr.  Rogerson  took  his 
leave,  and  went  home  a  happy  man. 

We  have  never  seen  by  daylight  the  cottage  to  which  Gilbert 
was  conveyed,  and  where  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Rogerson  had  spent 
their  honeymoon.  It  was  not  a  place  that  many  people  would  have 
liked  to  live  in.  It  stood  in  a  green  hollow,  suggestive  of  damp  ; 
but  roses  grew  around  it,  and  Mrs.  Rogerson  loved  it,  and  Doc- 
tor Rogerson's  seven  children  had  been  born  within  its  white- 
washed walls,  and,  in  Doctor  Rogerson's  eyes,  it  was  a  very  nest 
of  love  and  beauty. 

He  hastened  to  enter  a  most  untidy  parlour,  which  neither 
Gilbert  nor  Beatrice  would  have  recognized.  Twelve  years  and 
seven  children  had  sadly  marred  the  chintz  furniture,  which  they 
had  seen  in  all  its  honeymoon  freshness.  The  neat  and  dainty 
bride,  with  hair  carefully  braided,  and  perfect  sleeves  and  collar, 


258  BEATEICE. 

had  suffered  from  the  same  causes.  Mrs.  Rogerson  had  grown 
delicate  and  careless,  and  untidy  too ;  and  Doctor  Rogerson 
found  her,  as  usual,  lounging  on  the  sofa,  with  several  children 
around  her.  On  the  carpet  rolled  the  last  haby — an  unmistak- 
able though  decidedly  cheerful  likeness  of  its  papa. 

"  My  dear,  I  bring  good  news,"  said  Doctor  Rogerson,  sit- 
ting down  with  a  sigh — ^he  had  learned  to  sigh  about  every 
thing  ;  "  we  can  have  the  cottage." 

A  flush  passed  across  Mrs.  Rogerson's  faded  face. 

"  A  new  lease?"  she  said. 

"  Why,  no,  my  dear ;  Mr.  Gervoise  cannot  very  well  do 
that.  The  cottage  is  his  son's,  but,  you  know,  Mr.  Antony 
Gervoise  goes  by  his  father,  and  a  kinder  man  than  Mr.  Ger- 
voise I  nev^r  met.  Would  you  believe  it,  my  dear,  guessing  the 
difficulties  of  our  position,  he  offered  to  advance  me  twenty 
pounds  on  my  attendance  on  Mrs.  Gervoise." 

Mrs.  Rogerson  brightened  considerably. 

"  And  have  you  got  the  money?  "  she  asked. 

"  Why,  no,  my  dear.     I  did  not  like  to  take  it." 

"Now,  Doctor  Rogerson,  how  could  you?  And  the  chil- 
dren have  not  a  thing  to  put  on,  you  heard  me  saying  so  only 
yesterday." 

"  My  dear,  there  is  no  time  lost,  for  Mr.  Gervoise  put  it  so 
that  I  can  have  the  twenty  pounds  any  day  I  choose." 

"  Jane,  give  me  pen  and  ink,"  said  Mrs.  Rogerson  to  her 
eldest  daughter. 

Doctor  Rogerson  looked  inquisitive,  but  he  made  no  com- 
ment. Mrs.  Rogerson  took  out  her  pocket-book,  dipped  her 
pen  in  the  inkstand,  held  by  Jane,  a  tall  blue-eyed  girl,  and  be- 
gan writing. 

"  My  dear,  what  is  it?"  asked  Doctor  Rogerson. 

"  I  am  writing  down  a  list  of  indispensable  articles  to  be 
purchased  out  of  the  twenty  pounds,"  calmly  replied  his  wife. 
"  Shall  I  read  them  to  you? " 

"  If  you  please,  my  dear.     Mary,  be  quiet." 

"  For  William  a  new  suit  of  clothes  ;  for  James  ditto  ;  for 
Andrew  ditto ;  for  Mary  a  cloak ;  for  Jane  a  new  frock ;  for 
baby  a  pair  of  boots." 

Doctor  Rogerson  sighed.  He  knew  what  baby's  feet  could 
wear  out  of  boots  ;  a  pair  a  fortnight  was  baby's  allowance. 

"  And  for  yourself,  my  love,  what  have  you  put  down?"  he 
asked. 

"  Nothing,"  sighed  Mrs.  Rogerson.  "  We  cannot  afford  it. 
Doctor  Rogerson." 


BEATEICE.  259 

"  Yes,  my  love,  we  can  and  must.  If  the  children  are  to  be 
provided  for,  their  mother  must  be  provided  for  too.  I  cannot 
allow  it,  my  dear.     I  cannot." 

"  Well,  my  dear,  I  cannot  deny  that  I  should  like  a-  cloth 
jacket,  a  braided  one,  I  mean." 

"  Certainly,"  he  replied,  with  great  alacrity.  "  Certainly, 
my  dear." 

It  was  very  pleasant,  this  easy  way  of  getting  money.  It 
always  is,  unless  to  the  prudent  and  the  proud,  and  Doctor  and 
Mrs.  Rogerson  could  not  afford  to  be  either.  They  were  of  the 
countless  tribe  to  whom  the  present  and  its  necessities  are  all  in 
all — who  close  still  more  securely  the  door  that  locks  the  future 
from  man's  view,  and  shut  their  eyes  lest  they  should  get  a  stray 
glimpse  of  the  fate,  often  dark  and  threatening,  which  lies  be- 
yond the  threshold  of  to-day.  It  was  all  as  it  should  be  to  Doc- 
tor Rogerson  and  his  sickly  wife  this  morning.  The  cottage 
was  not  to  be  taken  away  from  them  just  yet ;  Mr.  Gervoise 
kindly  offered  twenty  pounds ;  what  though  his  promises  were 
said  to  be  slippery  and  insecure,  better  not  think  of  that.  What 
though  this  unearned  money  was  but  forestalling  the  resources 
of  the  future ;  one  was  hope,  so  sweet  to  the  struggling,  and  the 
other  was  that  boon  invaluable  to  the  needy,  ready  money. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

Antony  and  Beatrice  met  at  dinner,  and  to  Beatrice's  sur- 
prise Mr.  Gervoise  mentioned  the  Stones. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  he  said,  at  the  dessert,  "  can  you  give  me 
any  information  about  these  new  tenants  of  yours  ?  Who  are 
they?" 

"  City  people,  I  believe." 

Unmindful  or  unconscious  of  Mr.  Gervoise's  furtive  look, 
Beatrice  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  listened. 

"Are  they  rich?"  continued  Mr.  Gervoise. 

Antony  looked  impatient,  and  shortly  answered : 

"  No." 

"  Poor  fellow  !  "  thought  Beatrice,  "  that  sort  of  acting  is  not 
in  his  way ;  besides,  he  does  not  like  being  made  a  constant 
cat's-paw.  Take  patience,  Antony,  I  am  much  deceived  if  you 
wiU  not  soon  act  on  your  own  account." 

"Well,  my  dear  boy,  you  have  acted  for  the  best,  of  course." 

Beatrice  smiled  disdainfully.  She  knew  that  she  was  the 
person  Mr.  Gervoise  meant  to  deceive,  and  she  thought  him  very 
shallow. 

"  Is  it  a  large  family?  "  she  asked. 

Unwise  question.  Mr.  Gervoise  at  once  read  through  Bea- 
trice as  she  had  read  through  him.  She  took  some  interest  in 
this  matter,  therefore  she  meant  to  thwart  him.  Mr.  Gervoise 
had  no  objection  to  thaf ;  his  life  had  been  cold  and  dull  of  late, 
but  better  times  were  at  hand.  With  great  suavity  of  manner 
he  turned  to  his  son,  and  repeated  Beatrice's  question. 

"  Are  they  a  large  family,  my  dear  boy?" 

"  An  old  gentleman  and  his  sister,"  answered  Antony,  peel- 
ing a  pear  ;  but  he  could  not  meet  Beatrice's  eye  full  upoD  him. 
The  truth  flashed  across  her  in  a  moment.  She  rose,  and  push- 
ing away  her  chair  from  the  table,  she  said,  significantly : 

"  Not  his  sister — ^his  daughter.     Will  you  come,  darling?" 

She  led  her  mother  out  of  the  room. 


BEATEICE.  261 

"  I  told  you  so !  "  triumphantly  whispered  Mr.  Gervoise, 
leaning  across  the  table.  "  I  told  you  so !  She  is  already 
jealous." 

Antony's  blue  eyes  overflowed  with  fond,  foolish,  and  cruel 
delight. 

"  I  wish  she  were !  "  he  said.  "  I  wish  she  were,  the 
vixen ! " 

"  She  is  ! " 

"  WeU,  then,  let  her  be  !— let  her  be  !  " 

"  Very  true  ;  only  mind  you  play  your  cards  well,  my  dear 
boy.     Mind ! " 

Antony  nodded,  as  much  as  to  say :  Trust  to  me,"  and  he 
looked  at  Beatrice  through  the  window.  She  was  walking 
slowly  with  h^r  mother  on  the  terrace.  The  sun  shone  on  her 
bare  head.  How  rich  and  glossy  looked  her  dark  curls  !  What 
a  warm  smooth  bloom  there  was  on  her  young  face  !  She  was 
ripe  as  a  peach,  and  she  was  jealous. 

"  Let  her  be,"  thought  Antony,  again,  "  let  her  be.  It  is 
time  I  should  pay  her  out." 

He  could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  increasing  her  torment. 
He  rose.     His  father  said,  quickly  : 

"  Mind,  my  dear  boy,  Beatrice  is  very  keen,  don't  commit 
yourself.     She  is  in  the  net,  but  don't  close  it  yet  upon  her." 

"  I  know  what  I  am  about,"  shortly  replied  Antony,  and  he 
left  the  room,  and  at  once  joined  Beatrice.  She  did  not  look  at 
him,  but  then  she  did  not  banish  him  with  one  of  her  haughty 
glances,  so  he  lounged  by  her  side  until  Mrs.  Gervoise  sat  down. 
Beatrice,  instead  of  remaining  near  her  mother,  went  and  leaned 
against  the  stone  balustrade,  and  looked  at  one  of  the  fountains. 
"  She  wants  me  to  go  to  her,"  thought  Antony,  swelling  with 
triumph.  "  Well,  perhaps  I  will,  perhaps  I  will."  And  he  did, 
that  kind  Antony.  He  went  and  leaned  against  the  stone  balus- 
trade near  her,  and  looked  at  the  samp  fountain.  Beatrice 
turned  upon  him  with  an  icy  mien. 

"  Mr.  Gervoise,"  she  said,  "  how  is  it  that  you  are  letting 
your  own  house  and  staying  in  mine  ?  " 

"I  let  the  cottage  before  I  thought  of  coming  here,"  com- 
posedly answered  Antony. 

"  And  you  have  let  it  to  a  rich  man  who  has  a  daughter  ?  " 

"  Ye — es,"  drawled  Antony,  "  he  has — a  lovely  girl,  too," 

Beatrice  smiled  with  great  scorn. 

"  All  this  is  your  father's  doing,"  she  said.  "  God  help  you, 
Antony !     It  is  all  your  father's  doing ;  but  you  will  abet  him. 


262  BEATRICE. 

God  help  you !     You  have  not  a  friend,  and  you  are  unworthy 
to  have  one  ;  it  is  your  fate  to  fall  and  perish." 

Tears  stood  in  Beatrice's  dark  eyes.  She  spoke  with  her  old 
pity  and  half  liking,  and  Antony's  eyes  sparkled.  "  Ay,  she  was 
jealous,  and  desperately  jealous  !  " 

"  Beatrice  !  "  he  fondly  whispered,  and  he  pressed  her  arm. 

Beatrice  gave  him  an  amazed  look,  and  drew  back  two  steps. 
She  was  keen,  as  Mr.  Gervoise  had  said ;  in  a  moment  she  saw 
how  the  father  had  lured  on  the  son,  and  that  she  was  to  be  an 
unconscious  agent  in  his  scheme. 

"  Do  not  be  ridiculous,  Antony,"  she  said,  with  cool  irony, 
"  and  never  believe  what  your  father  says  of  me.     You  and  he    j 
live  in  one  world,  and  I  in  another.     When  you  forget  that.  An-    I 
tony,  you  become  his  tool  and  his  dupe." 

She  went  back  to  her  mother,  and  left  him  looking  both 
foolish  and  angry.  His  father  was  right  enough.  Antony  was 
no  match  for  Beatrice  ;  she  could  learn  from  him  all  she  pleased, 
and  he  could  not  exchange  two  words  with  her  but  he  blundered. 
Mr.  Gervoise  spared  him  the  mortification  of  doing  so  any  more, 
for  cross-examination  having  probably  told  him  that  Antony  had 
been  defeated  in  the  first  onset,  he  used  such  excellent  arguments 
to  make  him  leave  Carnoosie,  that  the  very  next  morning  his 
son  bade  that  pleasant  abode  and  his  mistress  adieu.  His  de- 
parture relieved  and  surprised  Beatrice.  It  perplexed  her  too. 
Had  she  been  mistaken,  or  had  she  scared  Mr.  Gervoise  from 
his  plans  ^  Neither  seemed  likely  to  her.  Still  Antony  was 
gone,  and  if  Mr.  Gervoise  did  not  want  Mr.  Stone's  daughter  for 
his  son,  what  did  he  want?  She  watched,  and  saw,  and  learned 
nothing,  and  at  length  forgot  these  strangers  in  the  bitterness  of 
her  own  lot.  Into  that  bitterness  we  will  not  enter.  Let  Bea- 
trice bear  her  burden,  it  is  light  as  yet.  A  day  will  come  when 
she  will  remember  this  time,  and  wonder  that  she  once  found  it 
so  hard.  Antony  had  been  gone  a  week,  when  one  of  those  lit- 
tle accidents  against  which  Mr.  Gervoise  could  not  always  guard, 
partly  betrayed  him  to  his  step-daughter,  and  helped  to  remind 
her  of  the  very  persons  he  most  wished  to  forget. 

Gilbert  had  promised  to  write,  and  he  kept  his  word  ;  but  his 
letters  were  not  frequent.  It  would  not  have  been  good  for  either 
of  these  two  to  have  exchanged  written  speech  too  often.  They 
could  not  and  would  not  forget,  but  they  did  not  always  dare  to 
remember.  Still  it  now  seemed  very  long  to  Beatrice  since  he 
had  written  ;  her  heart  ached,  her  whole  being  longed  for  him. 
Mrs.  Gervoise  did  not  feel  equal  to  a  drive,  and  Beatrice  went 


BEATEICE.  263 

out  alone  in  the  grounds.  Instead  of  walking  down  her  favour- 
ite avenue,  she  followed  the  banks  of  the  little  green  and  shining 
river,  which,  after  cheerfully  singing  its  way  through  the  grounds 
of  Carnoosie,  flowed  on  beneath  the  shade  of  the  mighty  forest 
trees.  When  she  had  got  about  half  way,  she  sat  down  and 
rested.  The  spot  was  beautiful  and  very  still.  The  water 
flowed  with  a  faint  ripple  on  its  edge  of  sand,  the  trees  shivered 
in  the  sun,  and  birds  sang  hidden  in  their  deep  leafy  boughs. 
How  often  had  she  and  Gilbert  sat  down  together  on  this  spot 
and  looked  at  the  flowing  water,  at  the  green  landscape  beyond, 
at  the  blue  sky  and  its  fleecy  clouds  !  Oh  !  if  he  were  to  come 
suddenly  upon  her ;  if  she  could  see,  feel,  and  hear  him  once 
more  !  Her  heart  beat  at  the  thought :  she  closed  her  eyes,  and 
would  see  no  outward  object  to  banish  so  sweet  and  so  happy  a 
vision.  But  Beatrice  had  not  closed  her  ears,  and  a  methodical 
commonplace  voice  broke  the  charm,  and  sent  the  dear  illusion 
to  the  winds.  "  Put  the  camp  stool  here.  Rosy,"  it  said.  Bea- 
trice looked  up  with  a  start,  and  on  the  opposite  *bank  of  the 
stream  she  saw  a  grey,  shrewd-looking  man,  a  pretty  fair  girl  in 
a  straw  hat,  and  Mr.  Gervoise.  One  look  at  the  group  was 
enough  :  they  were  friendly,  nay  they  were  intimate.  Mr.  Ger- 
voise helped  Rosy  to  settle  the  camp  stool,  and  Rosy  laughed  up 
in  his  face  with  a  saucy  air,  and  the  father  looked  on,  adjusting 
his  fishing  tackle  all  the  time.  They  were  intimate,  and  these 
were  the  Stones,  of  course  !  They  had  not  seen  her,  and  Bea- 
trice rose  and  walked  away,  and  at  her  heart  lay  one  of  the 
deepest  feelings  of  pity  she  had  ever  known. 

So  these  were  Mr.  Gervoise's  new  victims.  But  were  they 
victims  ?  That  grey  man  looked  cool  and  keen,  and  that  bloom- 
ing girl  with  the  shining  fair  hair  seemed  the  very  apple  of  his 
eye.  If  love  could  guard,  surely  she  was  safe.  Granted  even 
that  Mr.  Gervoise  had  some  bad  or  sinister  object,  could  she  in- 
terfere ?  She  could  not,  so  she  steeled  her  heart,  and  forbade  it 
these  'thoughts. 

But  what  the  will  decrees,  it  cannot  always  accomplish. 
Beatrice  felt  sure  that  Mr.  Gervoise  had  some  deeply-laid  scheme  ; 
her  childhood  and  her  youth  had  not  been  spent  in  mere  revolts 
having  self  for  their  object.  She  had  watched  him  at  work,  and 
she  had  reckoned  his  victims.  None  were  too  mean  for  him — a 
prince  or  'a  cowherd  would  suit  Mr.  Gervoise,  but  nothing  that 
was  not  human  would.  Antony  could  whip  his  dog,  and  like  it ; 
his  father  scorned  sport  so  mean.  Antony  could  ride  through 
young  corn  and  enjoy  a  farmer's  wrath;  Mr.  Gervoise  would 


264:  BEATEICE. 

not  tread  on  a  blade  of  grass,  but  he  was  a  pitiless  landlord,  and 
there  was  one  dark  story  of  a  tenant  whom  he  had  played  on, 
and  driven  to  despair,  and  who  had  been  found  floating  dead  and 
swollen  in  the  cheerful  little  river  that  flowed  through  Carnoosie. 
Besides,  could  she  forget  Mr.  Baby  and  Mr.  Ray?  Beatrice 
knew  all  his  turns  and  doublings,  and  remorseless  tenacity.  He 
would  have  held  a  human  life  dear  if  purchased  at  five  shillings, 
but  five  pounds,  and  even  five  hundred,  were  nothing  for  the 
accomplishment  of  a  favourite  aim.  The  little  system  of  espi- 
onage which  Mr.  Gervoise  had  established  in  Carnoosie  was  ex- 
pensive ;  he  held  it  cheap.  "Without  information  it  was  impos- 
sible to  act,  and  information  could  therefore  never  be  dear.  How 
Mr.  Gervoise  would  have  scorned  economy !  How  he  would 
have  hated  the  meanness  of  a  thrifty  schemer !  "What !  grudge 
the  seed  that  was  to  yield  so  abundant  a  harvest !  All  these 
things  Beatrice  knew,  and  knowing  them,  how  could  she  help 
pitying  the  Stones  ?  "  "Why  is  not  that  girl  a  beggar's  daughter  ?  " 
she  thought ;  "  why  is  she  rich,  to  be  coveted  by  the  cruel  and 
the  greedy  ?  "Well,  I  cannot  help  it — ^the  poor,  foolish  flies  must 
take  their  chance  !  "  Ay,  they  must,  yet  it  was  hard  to  think 
that  perhaps  they  were  already  entangled  in  the  web,  and  must 
soon  be  sucked  and  devoured. 

"When  Beatrice  entered  the  house,  she  was  surprised  to  find 
Mr.  Gervoise  there  before  her.  Had  he  seen  her?  Did  he 
want  to  prove  an  alibi,  arid  cheat  her  out  of  the  evidence  of  her 
senses  ?     She  walked  up  to  him,  impetuous  and  indignant. 

"  Mr.  Gervoise,"  she  said,  "  who  gave  these  Stones  the  right 
of  entering  the  grounds  of  Carnoosie  ?  " 

"  I  did." 

"  You  might  have  consulted  me  first." 

"  "V^ery  true,  but  I  did  not." 

The  entrance  of  Mrs.  Gervoise  checked  Beatrice's  angry  re- 
ply. Miss  Gordon  bit  her  lip.  She,  too,  was  in  the  web,  and 
its  meshes  were  of  steel.  "  And  shall  I  ever  break  through  it  ?  " 
thought  Beatrice,  turning  to  the  window  with  a  feeling  of 
despair. 

"  Are  these  Stones  very  rich?"  timidly  asked  Mrs.  Gerv^oise, 
who  had  heard  their  name  mentioned  as  she  entered  the  room. 

"  Rich !  "  scornfully  repeated  Mr.  Gervoise  ;  "  city  people 
always  pretend  to  be  rich,  Mrs.  Gervoise." 

"  That's  for  me,"  thought  Beatrice,  "  but  it  will  not  do.  I 
will  see  these  Stones,  and  ask  them  here,  and  know  the  whole 
story,  Mr.  Gervoise." 


BEATRICE.  265 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Gervoise,  "  here  is  a  letter  for  you." 
Beatrice  turned  round.  Behind  her  stood  the  footman  with 
a  letter  on  a  tray,  and  she  knew  in  a  moment  that  it  came  from 
Gilbert.  All  thoughts  of  the  Stones  went  adrift.  Her  cheek 
flushed,  her  fingers  closed  on  the  epistle  with  eager  grasp.  She 
put  it  into  her  pocket ;  she  would  not  read  it  then  and  there — 
she  would  not  leave  the  room  at  once.  So  she  lingered  at  the 
window  till  she  could  bear  no  more  ;  and,  opening  it,  she  walked 
out  on  the  terrace,  on  through  the  flower-garden.  Mr.  Gervoise 
followed  her  with  a  keen,  mistrustful  eye.  He,  too,  had  his 
thoughts  and  his  soliloquies. 

"  She  is  sharp — she  is.  Miss  Gordon,"  thought  Mr.  Ger- 
voise ;  "  but  it  is  hard  work  to  her,  and  it  is  play  to  me." 


12 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

It  was  play,  indeed,  to  Mr.  Gervoise,  and  he  knew,  too,  the 
power  of  Gilbert's  letter.  They  were  not  wholesome  food,  but  a 
philter  sweet  and  strong ;  and  they  threw  Beatrice  into  a  deli- 
cious torpor,  which  lasted  days,  and  from  which  few  thoughts 
had  power  to  awaken  her.  So  he  kept  them  back,  or  gave  them 
by  means  she  could  not  detect,  and  used  them  as  a  convenient 
bait — for  he  watched  her  as  closely  as  she  watched  him,  and  far 
more  keenly  than  she  did.  Poor  Beatrice  !  she  was  pure  and 
true,  but  hers  was  not  the  nature,  though  hers  was  the  destiny, 
of  sacrifice  and  self-denial.  She  was  born  for  joy  and  love  and 
a  life  of  noble  and  delicate  pleasures,  not  for  love  denied,  and  the  • 
captivity  of  Carnoosie,  and  the  companionship  of  Mr.  Gervoise. 

But  she  did  not  think  of  this  as  she  ran  along  the  garden 
paths  until  she  reached  a  retired  arbour,  enclosed  by  melancholy 
yews,  and  lying  near  a  silent  grass-grown  path.  Here  Beatrice 
would  not  be  disturbed,  and  here  she  sat  down  and  read. 

It  was  a  letter,  tender  and  fond,  but  sad.  Gilbert's  heart 
was  growing  weary  of  the  long  probation.  It  is  all  very  well  to 
part  in  heroic  mood,  and  lay  yourself  a  willing  victim  on  the 
altar  of  duty — ^it  is  hard,  but  it  is  intoxicating  too — ^there  are 
sublime  sorrows  worth  any  joy.  But  hard,  oh  !  hard  and  bitter 
is  the  slow  torment  of  a  suffering  heart ;  the  day  after  day  long- 
ing which  must  never  be  sated.  Thus  Gilbert  had  no  doubt  felt 
when  he  wrote,  for,  as  Beatrice  read,  the  bitterness  of  his  grief 
reached  her ;  her  full  heart  overflowed.  She  flung  herself  on  the 
grass,  and  gave  way  to  her  sorrow.  Should  she  never  see  Gil- 
bert again  ? — never,  as  he  seemed  to  fear  !  Alas  !  Carnoosie 
was  her  prison  ;  he  could  not  come  to  her,  she  must  not  go  to 
him.  Oh  !  to  be  free  !  to  be  free  and  to  fly  to  him  !  Her  tears 
fell  like  rain  on  the  grass  ;  but  the  sound  of  a  stealthy  step  made 
her  start  to  her  feet.  Who  was  coming  upon  her  to  watch  her 
in  her  grief !    She  looked,  and  with  amazement  she  saw  Antony 


BEATKICE.  267 

Gervoise.  It  was  he,  she  could  not  doubt  it.  He  did  not  see  her, 
but  with  a  cautious  look  and  a  light  step  he  passed  on. 

"What  brings  him  back?"  thought  Beatrice  with  mistrust- 
ful surprise.  Her  next  thought  was  a  flash  of  light :  Antony- 
was  taking  the  road  to  the  forest,  the  road  that  led  to  the  cottage 
of  the  Stones.  Beatrice  had  been  deceived  all  along.  She 
clasped  her  head  between  both  her  hands,  and  tried  to  concen- 
trate her  bewildered  thoughts.  At  length  slowly,  but  surely, 
the  truth  came  to  Beatrice — a  truth  she  would  never  have  imag- 
ined ;  so  brazen,  so  audacious,  was  the  scheme.  Antony  Ger- 
voise  had  never  left  the  house. 

She  had  sat  down  .again  ;  she  now  rose  in  a  transport  of  in- 
dignation and  anger — she  knew  that  her  servants  were  bought, 
mere  spies  upon  the  mistress  who  fed  and  paid  them ;  but  she 
had  not  thought  that  even  Mr.  Gervoise  would  have  dared  to  do 
this.  And  yet  it  was  so  easy  !  The  house  was  large,  and  the 
servants  were  not  merely  bought,  they  also  lived  in  fear  of 
Mr.  Gervoise.  Nothing  was  easier  than  for  Antony  to  remain 
in  Carnoosie,  and  go  in  and  out  without  the  knowledge  of  its 
mistress. 

"  And  that  is  how  I  am  treated  in  my  own  house,"  thought 
Beatrice  with  a  burning  cheek ;  "  well,  I  should  deserve  any 
treatment  if  I  bore  with  this." 

Within  five  minutes  after  this  incident  our  old  acquaintance, 
John,  knocked  at  Mrs.  Scot's  door,  and  requested  her,  in  the 
name  of  his  young  mistress,  to  step  into  the  library.  John  had 
never  liked  Mrs.  Scot,  and  the  tone  in  which  Beatrice  had  issued 
her  commands  made  his  eyes  twinkle  with  satisfaction.  "  That 
Mrs.  Scot  is  a-going  to  get  a  dressing,"  he  thought,  and  he  de- 
livered his  message  with  amiable  alacrity.  Mrs.  Scot  was  in  her 
room  casting  up  accounts.  She  had  grown  stout  during  years  of 
comfort,  and  her  apartment  bore  witness  to  the  excellent  situation 
she  enjoyed  at  Carnoosie.  Luxury  had  crept  in  to  her,  and  had 
been  kindly  entertained.  Soft  yielding  chairs,  better  carpets, 
cheerful  curtains,  birds  in  a  cage,  showed  an  improvement  in 
Mrs.  Scot's  temper  and  position.  True,  her  stern  face  was  rather 
bloated  than  fat,  her  eyes  had  lost  none  of  their  fixedness,  but  for 
all  that  Mrs.  Scot  was  an  altered  woman,  and  looked  rather  less 
fitted  to  struggle  with  the  world  than  when  Mr.  Gervoise  brought 
Beatrice  to  Carnoosie.  She  received  Miss  Gordon's  message 
with  a  half  scornful 

"  What  does  she  want  with  me  ?  " 

John  replied  that  Miss  Gordon  would  tell  her  that  herself, 


268  BEATRICE. 

and  reminded  Mrs.  Scot  that  their  mistress  did  not  like  to  be 
kept  waiting.  Mrs.  Scot  smiled,  turned  a  page  of  her  ledger, 
and  cast  up  another  column. 

"  If  she  don't  pay  for  that,"  thought  John,  chuckling.  With 
an  excess  of  zeal  he  went  and  told  his  mistress  that  Mrs.  Scot 
was  busy,  but  would  come  presently  ;  which  piece  of  information 
Beatrice  received  so  quietly  that  John  went  away  disappointed, 
and  began  to  think  that  Mrs.  Scot  was  not  going  to  get  it  after 
aU. 

Mrs.  Scot's  accounts  were  complex.  It  took  her  a  full  half 
hour  to  set  them  right.  When  every  farthing  was  explained  to 
her  satisfaction,  she  closed  the  book,  locked  her  desk,  locked  her 
door,  and,  putting  her  keys  into  her  pocket,  she  went  down-stairs 
to  the  library.  Miss  Gordon  was  writing.  Without  looking 
round  she  said :  . 

"  Please  to  wait,  Mrs.  Scot.     I  shall  soon  have  done." 

She  did  not  keep  Mrs.  Scot  very  long  waiting,  for  in  a  few 
minutes  she  turned  her  chair  and  said : 

"  Mrs.  Scot,  how  long  has  Mr.  Antony  Gervoise  been  in  this 
liouse  without  my  knowledge  ?  " 

"  I  can't  tell,  ma'am,"  was  the  imperturbable  reply. 

"  Then  how  long  has  he  been  in  it  with  your  knowledge,  Mrs. 
Scot?" 

"  Two  hours,  ma'am." 

"  Two  hours !  And  he  has  not  slept,  and  lived,  and  eaten 
here  for  two  weeks  ?  " 

"  Not  that  I  know  of,  ma'am." 

"  Then,  Mrs.  Scot,  if  you  do  not  know  what  passes  in  this 
house,  and  if  you  can  remain  ignorant  of  the  presence  of  a  young 
man  here,  you  are  not  fit  to  be  the  housekeeper  of  Camoosie  ! " 

Mrs.  Scot  heard  her  young  mistress  with  a  defiant  stare.  It 
seemed  portentous  that  this  girl,  whom  she  had  helped  to  lock 
Tip,  should  now  bring  her  to  an  account,  and  lord  it  over  her. 

"  I  foresaw  your  answer,  Mrs.  Scot,"  said  Beatrice  taking 
no  notice  of  the  look,  "  and  since  you  have  chosen  to  forget  what 
I  told  you  when  I  came  of  age,  here  is  mine." 

She  handed  her  two  papers  as  she  spoke.  One  was  a  check 
for  Mrs.  Scot's  wages,  nicely  calculated  to  the  utmost  farthing, 
but  not  beyond  it.  The  other  a  written  notice  intimating  to  Mrs. 
Scot  that  Miss  Gordon  no  longer  required  her  services.  Mrs. 
Scot  shook  with  anger,  and  tore  both  notice  and  check  to  pieces. 

"I  shall  not  go!"  she  cried,  stamping  her  foot;  "you  are 
no  mistress  of  mine,  and  I  will  not  go  at  your  bidding,  I  say  ! " 


BEATEICE.  269 

*'  You  shall  leave  within  an  hour,"  composedly  said  Beatrice. 

"Iwillnot!— IwiUnot!" 

"  Hush,"  interrupted  Beatrice,  "  leave  the  room  at  once." 

Mrs.  Scot  clenched  her  fists,  and  looked  with  impotent  wrath 
at  Beatrice's  calm  face,  but  she  obeyed  so  far  as  to  leave  the 
library.  At  once  she  made  her  way  to  the  study,  where  Mr. 
Gervoise,  unconscious  of  this  domestic  storm,  was  supporting 
exhausted  nature  with  a  glass  of  wine  and  a  couple  of  biscuits. 
For  some  minutes  Mrs.  Scot  could  not  speak.  She  had  a  violent, 
as  well  as  a  bad  temper,  and  rage  now  choked  her. 

"  Mr.  Gervoise,"  she  said  at  length,  "  what  did  you  tell  me 
when  that  girl  came  of  age  ? — what  did  you  tell  me  ?  " 

"  Tell  you ! "  echoed  Mr.  Gervoise,  deeply  astonished,  "  why, 
I  told  you  nothing,  Mrs.  Scot."  ^ 

"You  did  not  tell  me  she  should  never  be  mistress?" 
screamed  Mrs.  Scot — "  you  did  not  tell  me  that?" 

"  No,"  coolly  replied  Mr.  Gervoise,  '•  I  did  not ;  but  I 
remember  you  told  me  Miss  Gordon  had  informed  you  that 
henceforth  you  were  to  apply  to  her  for  orders  and  instructions." 
And  Mr.  Gervoise  smiled  at  Mrs.  Scot  over  his  glass  of  wine. 

A  keen  and  bitter  consciousness  that  she  had  been  made  a 
tool  of,  and  deceived  and  duped,  once  more,  to  be  cast  aside  in 
the  hour  of  danger,  came  to  Mrs.  Scot.  Tears  of  rage  rose  to 
her  eyes  and  dimmed  them,  as  she  thought  of  Carnoosie,  and  her 
room,  and  its  comforts,  and  power,  and  its  sweetness — all  for- 
feited in  one  hour  to  serve  Mr.  Gervoise,  and  perhaps,  too,  to 
spite  Beatrice. 

"  rU  tell  you  what,"  she  said  at  length,  "  Miss  Gordon  has 
given  me  notice,  and  bid  me  leave  within  one  hour  ;  but  if  I  do, 
Mr.  Gervoise — if  I  do,  you'll  repent  it  as  long  as  you  live  ! " 

This  threat  did  what  the  most  pathetic  entreaties  would  not 
have  done  ;  it  determined  Mr.  Gervoise  to  interfere. 

'^  Mrs.  Scot,  you  amaze  me,"  he  said.  "  What  is  all  this 
about  ? — ^what  has  happened  that  Miss  Gordon  should  give  you 
notice?" 

"  Miss  Gordon  has  learned  that  your  son  has  been  here  by 
the  sly  for  two  weeks,  and  as  she  hates  the  very  sight  of  him, 
she  vents  her  spite  upon  me." 

Mr.  Gervoise  smiled  derisively. 

"  Mrs.  Scot,  this  is  some  delusion  of  yours,"  he  remarked 
suavely.  "  In  the  first  place,  my  step-daughter  is  sincerely 
attached  to  my  son — in  the  second,  it  is  absurd  to  suppose  that 
she  was  ignorant  of  his  presence  in  the  house.     You  conamitted 


270  BEATRICE. 

a  mistake,  Mrs.  Scot — a  mistake.  Nevertheless,  I  sliall  do  my 
best  for  you." 

He  rose,  but  Mrs.  Scot  stood  before  him,  swelling  with  im- 
potent wrath ;  she  felt  mocked  and  derided,  as  well  as  wronged, 
and  speak  she  must. 

"  Mr.  Gervoise,"  she  said,  "  of  all  bad  men,  you  are  the 
worst ;  but  for  all  that,  let  me  leave  Carnoosie  if  you  dare  ! — ^let 
me  leave  it  if  you  dare  ! " 

She  shook  her  forefinger  at  him,  and  Mr.  Gervoise,  who  was 
sincerely  alarmed,  tried  to  pacify  her. 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Scot,"  he  said,  "  I  will  do  my  best — I  tell 
you  I  will  do  my  best  for  you  ! " 

"  Do  your  best  for  me — for  yourself  you  mean — ^I  tell  you 
again,  let  me  leave  Carnoosie  if  you  dare  ! " 

She  nodded  at  him,  and  walked  out. 

"  Dangerous  ! "  thought  Mr.  Gervoise—"  dangerous  !  I 
know  what  she  will  do,  though,  and  forewarned  is  forearlned, 
Mrs.  Scot." 

He  took  two  turns  about  the  room,  then  sat  down  and  wrote 
a  letter,  which  he  despatched  immediately.  When  this  was  done, 
he  requested  a  servant  to  take  his  compliments  to  Miss  Gordon, 
and  solicit  the  favour  of  an  interview  with  her.  The  favour  was 
granted,  and  within  five  minutes  Beatrice  and  her  step-father 
stood  face  to  face  in  the  library. 

"  My  dear  Beatrice,"  he  began,  "  what  is  this  unpleasant 
matter  between  you  and  Mrs.  Scot  ?  Can  it  not  be  settled  ?  She 
has  been  many  years  in  the  family,  my  dear." 

Beatrice  smiled  almost  sternly. 

"That  is  to  say,"  she  replied,  "that  for  twelve  years  and 
more  I  have  been  cherishing,  feeding,  and  paying  a  mortal 
enemy." 

"  My  dear,  let  Mrs.  Scot  remain  for  my  sake.  I  do  not 
often  solicit  favours." 

"  No,  you  take  them  ;  I  cannot  prevent  much  that  I  dislike  ; 
but  nothing  shall  make  me  submit  to  a  servant's  insolence  ! " 

"Insolence!"  cried  Mr.  Gervoise;  "Beatrice,  forget  and 
forgive  every  word  I  have  said  in  her  favour.  I  wash  my  hands 
of  her,  and  I  insist  on  giving  her  a  lecture  in  your  presence  before 
she  leaves." 

"  It  is  not  necessary,"  said  Beatrice. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  it  is." 

He  rang  the  bell  with  nervous  haste. 

"  John,  send  Mrs.  Scot  to  us." 


BEATRICE.  ,  2Y1 

John  grinned ;  within  five  minutes  Mrs.  Scot  appeared  on 
the  threshold  of  the  room.  She  looked  at  Beatrice,  then  at  Mr. 
Gervoise,  with  a  furtive  and  yet  defiant  look.  Beatrice  was  sit- 
ting cool,  careless,  and  disdainful.  Mr.  Gervoise  stood  with  his 
hands  behind  his  back,  benignant  and  dignilSed.  Had  he  pre- 
vailed, and  Beatrice  yielded?  or  was  she  sacrificed  without  re- 
morse or  shame  ?    She  soon  knew. 

"  Mrs.  Scot,"  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  with  a  wave  of  his  right 
hand,  "what  is  this  I  hear? — ^you  have  been  insolent  to  your 
mistress !  You  did  not  tell  me  that,  Mrs.  Scot.  How  do  you 
suppose  that  I  can  do  any  thing  for  you  ?  It  is  out  of  the  ques- 
tion, I  assure  you — wholly  so.  And  now,  Mrs.  Scot,  that  you 
are  losing  an  excellent  place  for  a  motive  so  paltry,  allow  me  to 
give  you  a  few  words  of  sound  advice.  Do  not  another  time 
trifle  so  wantonly  with  your  happiness — do  not,  Mrs.  Scot." 

Beatrice  could  not  help  smiling,  not  so  much  at  Mrs.  Scot's 
defeat  as  at  Mr.  Gervoise's  consummate  impudence ;  but  the 
housekeeper  saw  the  smile,  and  it  exasperated  her. 

"  So  you  think  yourself  the  mistress  oi  Carnoosie,  Miss  Gor- 
don ! "  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  more  ominous  than  insolent. 
"  Do  you  know  how  you  got  it?  Through  that  man's  trickery 
and  fraud,  and  I  can  prove  it.  You  are  very  proud  of  yourself. 
Miss  Gordon,  but  it  is  a  lie  brought  you  here,  and  it  is  a  lie 
keeps  you.  Old  Mr.  Carnoosie  never  meant  you,  a  girl  and  a 
papist,  to  have  Carnoosie,  and  you  got  it  because  that  man,"  and 
she  pointed  a  scornful  forefinger  at  him,  *'  because  that  man,  I 
say,  wanted  to  marry  your  mother.  I  know  you  hate  him — well, 
then,  let  it  humble  you  to  know  that  every  thing  you  have  you 
owe  to  him.  As  for  you,  Mr.  Gervoise,"  she  added,  turning  to 
him,  "  I  shall  have  a  word  or  two  with  Mr.  Stone  yet — a  word 
or  two." 

Mr.  Gervoise  who  had  heard  her  unmoved,  replied  with 
great  composure : 

"  If  I  can  assist  you  in  that  quarter  ;  if,  on  my  recommenda- 
tion, Mr.  Stone  can  help  you  to  a  good  situation,  Mrs.  Scot,  I 
shall  be  happy  indeed." 

She  gave  him  a  scornful  look,  and  left  the  room  without  a 
word.  When  the  door  had  closed  upon  her,  Beatrice  turned 
upon  Mr.  Gervoise,  and  said,  in  a  clear,  ringing  voice  : 

"  Mr.  Gervoise,  can  you  explain  all  this  to  me?  What  does 
this  woman  mean  ?  " 

She  gave  him  a  keen  and  searching  look,  for,  incomprehensi- 
ble as  they  were  to  her,  Mrs.  Scot's  taunts  had  startled  and  al- 
most alarmed  her. 


272  BEATEICE. 

*'  My  dear  Beatrice,  how  should  I  know  ?  "  he  replied,  coolly. 
"  That  woman  keeps  a  devil  in  her  heart,  and  you  know  that 
out  of  the  fulness  of  the  heart  the  mouth  speaketh." 

To  this  charitable  application  of  Scripture  Mr.  Gervoise 
added  an  amiable  and  lenient  "  it  is  hard  to  lose  a  good  situation, 
I  suppose,"  which  satisfied  Beatrice.  Her  pride  revolted  at  the 
thought  that  Mrs.  Scot  could  have  spoken  the  truth,  that  she 
could  owe  Camoosie  to  falsehood  and  to  fraud,  and  especially  to 
Mr.  Gervoise.  Rather  than  believe  that,  and  feel  humbled  to 
the  dust,  she  steeled  herself  to  do  a  very  hard  thing  indeed,  and 
that  was  to  believe  Mr.  Gervoise  for  once. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

With  despair  in  her  heart,  Mrs.  Scot  entered  the  quiet  room 
where  John  had  found  her  an  hour  before,  casting  up  accounts. 
And  so  it  was  over !  That  large,  pleasant,  affluent  Carnoosie, 
where  money  was  to  be  had  so  easily,  where  living  was  so 
abundant  and  so  good,  that  land  of  Goshen,  so  sweet  after  the  long 
fast  of  the  desert  (Mrs.  Scot's  life  had  not  always  been  one  of 
happiness),  was  exhausted,  and  Mrs.  Scot  must  turn  to  other 
fields,  and  seek  another  home.  She  had  saved  money,  but  noth- 
ing like  the  capital  that  would  give  her  an  income  equal  to  the 
board,  lodging,  and  salary  of  Carnoosie.  Mrs.  Scot  hated  small 
houses,  with  their  mean  little  gardens,  and  charwomen,  and 
their  thievish  ways.  She  wanted  lofty  ceilings,  and  broad  stair- 
cases, and  the  state  and  insolence  of  wealth  around  her.  She 
wanted  a  posse  of  servants  at  her  command ;  men  and  women 
who  would  tremble  if  she  frowned,  and  run  and  do  her  bidding. 
She  wanted,  too,  money  to  spend,  not  in  the  pitiful  way  of  shil- 
lings and  pence,  but  in  fifty  pounds  at  a  time,  if  need  be.  She 
wanted  to  be  courted  by  tradesmen,  and  be  fawned  on  and  flat- 
tered for  favours  she  rarely  granted.  In  short,  what  the  pictures, 
the  wines,  and  the  gardens  of  Beatrice  were  to  Mr.  Gervoise, 
her  house,  her  servants,  and  her  money  were  to  the  housekeeper. 
Both  were  human  leeches  in  their  way. 

But  perhaps  the  sorest  blow  of  all  to. Mrs.  Scot  was  the  giv- 
ing up  of  her  room.  She  had  spent  years  in  bringing  it  to  its 
present  state,  not  of  beauty,  to  that  she  was  indifierent,  but  of 
comfort.  The  carpets,  the  footstools,  the  chairs  and  tables, 
suited  Mrs.  Scot  exactly.  Never  would  she  find  others  like  these, 
never  !  Tears  of  grief  and  rage  flowed  down  Mrs.  Scot's  cheeks. 
For  a  moment  she  regretted  not  having  betrayed  Mr.  Gervoise 
at  once,  and  turned  to  Beatrice  ;  but  hatred  proved  stronger  than 
interest.  "  No,"  she  thought,  stopping  in  the  very  midst  of  her 
packing,  "  no,  the  ugly  little-faced  monkey,  better  starve  ten  times 
than  submit  to  her ;  but  I  will  pay  him  out,  I  will,  the  mean, 
pitiful  wretch  !  "  , 

12* 


274  BEATEIOE. 

In  this  mood  slie  packed.  But  alas  !  if  Mrs.  Scot  could  take 
a  well-fiUed  purse  with  her,  she  could  not  pack  up  her  room,  her 
chairs,  and  comforts,  and  Carnoosie.  These  darling  treasures 
must  remain  behind,  come  what  may.  Tears  of  spite  and  vexa- 
tion dimmed  her  eyes ;  then,  being  a  practical  woman,  she  sat 
down  awhile  and  matured  her  plans.  A  nod  showed  that  Mrs. 
Scot  had  come  to  a  satisfactory  conclusion.  She  rose,  locked  her 
trunks,  and  gave  her  room  a  last  look.  She  did  not  think  how 
calm  and  easy  her  life  might  have  been  had  she  proved  herself  a 
faithful,  or  at  least  a  respectful  servant,  she  only  thought  that 
Beatrice  and  Mr.  Gervoise  had  combined  to  hunt  her  out,  and 
she  vowed  to  make  them  both  suffer  for  their  sin. 

It  was  five  o'clock  as  Mrs.  Scot  left  Carnoosie  by  the  front  door. 
On  the  staircase,  and  at  the  gate,  she  found  servants  waiting  for 
her  with  insolent  faces,  on  which  beamed  unequivocal  delight. 
Mrs.  Scot  had  been  the  terror  of  housemaids,  and  had  had  many 
a  fierce  contest  with  the  male  members  of  the  household.  Now 
was  their  hour  of  triumph,  and  revenge  being  sweet  in  all  stages 
of  society,  to  Mrs.  Scot's  victims  as  well  as  to  Mrs.  Scot  herself, 
we  must  not  wonder  at  the  escort  she  now  finds  in  her  path.  Be 
assured  that  she  has  merited  it,  though  it  may  be,  and  is,  un- 
generous, no  doubt,  still  she  has  earned  it  by  years  of  petty  des- 
potism and  mean  tyranny,  scarcely  to  be  expiated  by  the  humili- 
ation of  those  five  minutes  from  the  hall-door  to  the  gate.  When 
Mrs.  Scot  had  crossed  this,  and  stood  on  the  road,  there  arose  a 
subdued  but  derisive  cheer  behind  her.  She  turned  round  and 
shook  her  fist ;  they  laughed  scornfully  ;  but  who  knows,  perhaps 
the  threat  was  not  meant  for  them,  perhaps  it  was  for  those  red 
brick  walls  behind  them,  for  that  Carnoosie  which  she  hated  now 
that  it  was  lost,  and  hers  no  more. 

In  this  mood  Mrs.  Scot  went  to  the  village  inn,  the  "  George." 
The  innkeeper  had  been  one  of  Mrs.  Scot's  few  favourites,  and, 
to  do  him  justice,  he  did  not  prove  a  turncoat  in  the  calamity  that 
deprived  her  of  all  power  to  serve  him.  He  gave  Mrs.  Scot  his 
best  room,  and  readily  acceded  to  her  request  that  he  would  send 
for  her  luggage. 

"  And,  Mr.  Brown,  I  am  going  out  for  a  little  while,  and  I 
shall  be  glad  of  something  when  I  come  in." 

"  We  have  got  bacon  and  eggs,  and  a  cold  ham  and  greens," 
was  Mr.  Brown's  triumphant  reply. 

Mrs.  Scot's  heart  overflowed  with  bitterness  and  gall.  This 
was  Mr.  Brown's  best,  and  what  no  kitchen-maid  at  Carnoosie 
would  have  condescended  to  touch.     The  memory  of  M.  Panel's 


BEATRICE.  275 

French  dishes,  so  sweet  and  savory,  of  delicious  soups  and 
fricassees,  came  back  to  her  ;  but  Mrs.  Scot  had  energy  and  will, 
and  pride  in  her  way,  and  scorning  to  show  her  regret  for  the 
flesh-pots  of  Egypt,  she  smiled  in  her  stem  fashion,  and  said : 

"  I  am  very  fond  of  bacon  and  eggs,  Mr.  Brown.  And  now 
I  am  going,  as  I  said,  for  a  little  while." 

She  went.  Her  path  took  her  through  the  forest,  now  in  all 
its  summer  splendour  and  beauty.  But  Mrs.  Scot's  thoughts  were 
not  turned  that  way.  What  mattered  trees  and  their  verdure, 
and  nature  and  her  skies,  to  Mrs.  Scot  in  her  present  mood? 
The  shortest  path,  that  which  would  lead  her  most  quickly  to  her 
revenge,  was  the  pleasantest  to  Mrs.  Scot.  On  she  went  until 
the  forest  was  crossed,  and  the  fair  fertile  plain  was  reached.  A 
noble  region  was  that  which  spread  around  Carnoosie  ;  a  world 
of  luxuriant  corn  and  ripe  orchards,  which  called  Beatrice  mis- 
tress. But  in  the  very  midst  of  that  fair  continent  was  the  small 
green  island  which  Antony  claimed  as  his,  and  in  the  centre  of 
this  again  stood  the  cottage  which  the  Stones  had  taken.  Beneath 
its  wails  flowed  the  same  rippling  cheerful  stream  which  pass- 
ed through  Beatrice's  grounds,  and  by  which  she  sat  so  often, 
dreaming  of  Gilbert  and  the  sweet,  tormenting  past.  To  this 
cottage  Mrs.  Scot  made  her  way  ;  a  mild-looking  servant-man  let 
her  in,  and  asked  her  business  and  her  name. 

"  I  am  Mrs.  Scot,  the  housekeeper  at  Carnoosie,  and  I  come 
to  speak  to  Mr.  Stone  on  important  business." 

So  answered  Mrs.  Scot,  for  she  was  not  one  to  disguise  her 
name,  or  beat  about  the  bush.  The  mild-looking  servant-man 
went  in,  delivered  her  message,  and  presently  Mr.  Stone  came 
out. 

This  gentleman  did  not  look  like  one  who  needed  any  warn- 
ing. There  were  strange  lines  of  thought  and  care  and  worldly 
experience  in  that  wrinkled  face.  The  small  eyes,  the  long,  keen 
nose,  the  thin,  cautious  mouth,  spoke  of  prudence,  if  there  be  lan- 
guage in  physiognomy. 

Mrs.  Scot  gave  this  worldly-looking  gentleman  a  doubtful 
glance,  and  began  cautiously  : 

"  I  must  apologize  for  the  liberty  I  am  taking,  sir,  but  I  come 
on  important  business." 

"  Don't  mention  it — don't  mention  it,"  was  Mr.  Stone's  answer. 

"  I  was  Mr.  Gervoise's  housekeeper  this  morning,  sir,"  con- 
tinued Mrs.  Scot.  "  If  I  were  remaining  at  Carnoosie,  I  do  not 
say  I  should  have  come  here  this  evening ;  but  I  am  leaving,  and 
it  lies  on  my  conscience  not  to  speak." 


276  BEATRICE. 

She  looked  hard  at  him,  but  Mr.  Stone's  face  remained  im- 
perturbably  cool. 

"  You  have  a  daughter,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Scot,  "  a  very  pretty 
daughter,  and  probably  a  rich  one,  and  I  know  some  one  who 
wants  her,  and  is  laying  a  trap  for  her.  Take  care,  sir,  a  worse 
man,  a  more  serpent  man,  a  more  snake  one,  there  does  not  exist. 
Take  care,  sir  ! " 

Mrs.  Scot  spoke  passionately,  for  she  forgot  every  thing  ex- 
cept her  own  feeling  of  resentment.  Her  hands  twitched  ner- 
vously, her  eyes  gleamed,  and  Mr.  Stone  looked  at  her  with  con- 
temptuous observation. 

''  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  taking  all  this  trouble," 
he  said,  with  a  smile. 

^'  But  you  don't  believe  me,"  quickly  replied  Mrs.  Scot,  "you 
don't  believe  me.  Why,  I  can  tell  you  all  that  has  passed  be- 
tween you  and  him.  I  know  him.  I  tell  you  I  know  him,  the 
serpent !  He  has  told  you  that  he  does  not  want  his  younger 
son  to  marry  yet.  Do  not  believe  it — for  father  and  son  are  in  a 
plot  against  you.  He  has  told  you  that  Miss  Beatrice  is  mad,  or 
next  door  to  it.  Do  not  believe  it ;  she  is  in  her  right  senses, 
sir,  as  well  as  you  and  I  are.  He  has  told  you  that  he  and  his 
sons  are  rich  ;  they  are  poor  as  rats,  and  as  mean  and  as  sneak- 
ing. He  has  told  you  that,  when  Miss  Beatrice  is  locked  up,  his 
son  Antony  will  come  into  the  property — do  not  believe  it,  he  is 
but  her  cousin  ever  so  far  removed,  and  there  is  an  heir-at-law 
who  lives  somewhere  in  Devonshire.  Whatever  he  says  believe 
the  very  reverse.  If  he  speaks  of  counts  and  nobles,  make  sure 
he  is  low,  quite  low.  Whatever  he  says,  believe  the  reverse. 
He  was  born  with  a  lie  in  his  mouth,  and  with  a  lie  on  his  lips 
he  will  die." 

Mrs.  Scot  spoke  readily  and  fast.  She  was  keen  and  shrewd, 
and  she  had  all  her  master's  doublings  by  heart.  She  knew,  as 
if  she  had  heard  him,  all  he  must  have  said  to  tempt  a  man  of 
Mr.  Stone's  turn  and  temper.  The  triple  lure  of  blood,  money, 
and  property  must  not  have  been  wanting.  But,  unfortunately 
for  Mrs.  Scot,  she  knew  the  truth  too  well.  She  said  so  nearly 
all  that  Mr,  Gervoise  had  said,  that  doubt  had  no  room.  She 
merely  denied  what  he  asserted,  but  in  the  violence  of  her  anger 
and  the  hurry  of  her  revenge  she  gave  no  clue — she  threw  no 
new  light. 

Mr.  Stone  saw  in  her  what  she  was — a  revengeful,  discarded 
servant,  but  he  did  not  see  the  torch  of  the  goddess  truth  burning 
in  the  hand  of  this  domestic  Nemesis.     The  commonplace,  ugly 


BEATEICE.  2Y7 

side  of  this  transaction  appeared  to  him.  No  presentiment  told 
him  that  this  might  be  the  turning  •  point  in  his  destiny.  He 
smiled  again. 

"  My  good  lady,"  he  said,  with  evident  complacency,  "  you 
come  too  late,  though  I  do  not  think  it  would  have  made  much 
difference  if  you  had  come  earlier ;  Mr.  Gervoise  wrote  to  me 
about  you  an  hour  ago." 

"  Well,  and  what  did  he  say  about  me  9  "  she  asked  defiantly. 

Mr.  Stone  took  a  letter  from  his  pocket,  and  put  it  into  her 
hand.  It  was  addressed  by  Mr.  Grervoise  to  Mr.  Stone,  and  ran 
thus : 

"  My  deak  Sir, — My  amiable  though  erratic  step-daughter 
has  had  an  unpleasantness  with  an  old  and  valued  servant,  Mrs. 
Scot,  the  housekeeper.  Of  course  the  servant  is  sacrificed  to  the 
child.  There  are  cases  when  it  is  too  hard  to  be  just.  Never- 
theless, Mrs.  Gervoise  and  I  feel  this  to  be  a  severe  trial.  A 
better  and  more  faithful  and  attached  dependant  we  never  Jiad. 
We  are  of  course  ready  to  make  every  pecuniary  compensation 
the  case  affords,  but  Mrs.  Scot  is  too  efficient  to  retire  on  a  pen- 
sion. If  you  could  therefore  recommend  her,  you  would  confer 
a  lasting  favour  on  your  faithful  servant, 

"A.  Gervoise." 

Mrs.  Scot  felt  thoroughly  bewildered  on  reading  this  high- 
flown  eulogy  of  herself.  She  did  not  at  once  detect  the  motive 
that  had  dictated  it.     Mr.  Stone  enlightened  her. 

"  I  think  that  will  do,  Mrs.  Scot,"  he  said.  "  I  suppose  I 
need  not  tell  you  the  value  I  set  on  your  visit  here,  and  the  reli- 
ance I  place  on  your  advice." 

The  look  of  Mr.  Stone's  little  shrewd  eyes  expressed  so  much 
amusement  at  her  defeat,  that  Mrs.  Scot  could  not  keep  in  her 
temper. , 

"  Be  his  dupe,"  she  said,  setting  her  teeth,  "  be  his  dupe,  sir, 
and  remember  my  warning  when  it  is  too  late.  What  did  I 
come  here  for  ? — did  I  ask  money  from  you  ? — what  did  I  come 
here  for  ?  " 

"  You  came  for  revenge,  Mrs.  Scot,"  replied  Mr.  Stone, 
smiling,  "  and  Mr.  Gervoise  is  the  softest  man  I  ever  knew, 
that's  all." 

"  Oh  !  you  think  him  soft,  do  you?  "  said  Mrs.  Scot,  turning 
to  the  door,  "  well,  then,  I  am  revenged  upon  you,  that's  all." 

Mr.  Stone  did  not  condescend  to  resent  her  insolent  tohe. 


278  BEATRICE. 

This  was  another  of  the  world's  many  shifting  scenes,  and  it 
amused  him.  A  heavy  book  lay  on  the  table,  and  Mrs.  Scot 
longed  to  take  and  throw  it  at  his  head  in  the  rage  of  her  defeat. 
The  letter  had  crushed  her.  What  could  she  say  ?  Deny  its 
truth  !  Impossible  !  Attribute  to  malice  language  so  considerate  ! 
Absurd !  This  was  indeed  a  trap  she  had  not  foreseen.  Mr. 
Stone  saw  her  anger  and  confusion,  and  he  smiled  at  both. 
Poor  man,  he  thought  himself  spectator  in  the  drama,  and  never 
suspected  that  he  was  prime  actor.  Thus  it  is  on  the  great  stage. 
We  act  our  part  all  the  better  that  we  never  know  it.  We  are 
ridiculous  or  sublime  unconsciously,  and  it  is  only  when  the  play 
is  half  over,  when  our  hearts  are  broken  with  grief  and  our  days 
worn  out  with  calamity  that  we  remember  how,  when  we  thought 
ourselves  freest,  we  were  already  deep  in  it,  slaves  and  victims 
of  the  fatal  sport. 

Mr.  Stone's  hand  was  on  the  lock  of  the  door  that  led  to  the 
room  where  he  had  left  his  daughter,  when  the  door  through 
which  Mrs.  Scot  had  just  departed,  opened  again,  and  she  ap- 
peared on  the  threshold. 

"  I  can  tell  you  many  things,"  she  said,  without  coming  for- 
ward— "  mind  I  can  tell  you  many  things." 

She  stood  there  like  a  dark  spirit  waiting  to  be  called  in 
within  the  room,  but  Mr.  Stone  looked  bored,  and  said  shortly  : 

"  That  will  do-^that  will  do  ;  we  have  had  enough  of  that, 
Mrs.  Scot." 

The  door  closed  on  Mrs.  Scot,  and  this  time  she  did  not  come 
back. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

Miss  Stone  had  left  the  parlour  when  her  father  re-entered 
it.  He  did  not  wonder  at  it.  Rosy  was  fond  of  the  garden,  and 
often  wandered  alone  beyond  its  precincts  into  the  forest,  or  the 
grounds  of  Carnoosie.  The  country  was  safe,  Mr.  Gervoise 
assured  him,  and  Mr.  Stone  saw  nothing  to  make  him  doubt  it. 
His  interview  with  Mrs.  Scot  had  made  Mr.  Stone  thirsty  ;  the 
evening  was  close,  too,  and  the  servant  had  not  yet  cleared  away 
the  tea-things,  so  he  drained  the  teapot,  and  poured  himself  out 
another  cup  of  tea.  But  Mr.  Stone  was  not  to  take  his  tea  in 
peace  this  evening.  Scarcely  had  he  raised  the  cup  to  his  lips, 
when  the  mild-looking  man-servant  announced  Mr.  Gervoise. 

He  came  in,  looking  very  warm  and  tired,  and  sank  down  on 
a  chair  with  a  breathless  air. 

"  Are  you  not  well,  Mr.  Gervoise?  "  asked  Mr.  Stone  ;  "  will 
you  have  some  tea  ?  " 

"  Tea  !  oh  no,  thank  you ;  tea  excites  me  so  ! — I  am  not  ill, 
thank  you,  only  a  little  flurried.  The  fact  is,"  plaintively  added 
Mr.  Gervoise,  "  I  cannot  get  over  parting  with  poor  Mrs.  Scot. 
She  went  away  this  afternoon,  and  I  am  afraid  she  was  vexed 
— ^I  am  afraid  she  was.  You  see  the  poor  soul  did  not  like 
being  sacrificed  to  Beatrice's  whim.  But,  then,  what  were  we 
to  do  ?  Beatrice,  an  only  child,  a  susceptible  girl — no,  we  could 
not  keep  Mrs.  Scot.  And  yet,  Mr.  Stone,  you  cannot  imagine 
what  a  good,  faithful,  honest  creature  that  Mrs.  Scot  has  always 
been  !  Now  allow  me  to  give  you  an  instance  :  Some  two  years 
ago  I  had  dealings  with  a  farmer  named  Robinson.  This  man 
attempted  to  bribe  Mrs.  Scot ;  he  offered  her  a  gold  watch  to  get 
him  the  information  he  wanted.  Mrs.  Scot  refused,  sir,  point 
blank.     Mind,  a  gold  watch,  sir." 

"And  you  had  that  on  good  authority,  of  course?"  asked 
Mr.  Stone. 

"  The  best  authority,  sir  ;  Mrs.  Scot  told  me  herself." 

Mr.  Stone  drank  his  tea  in  silence.     Should  he  unveil  that 


280  beateice: 

black  Mrs.  Scot  to  this  soft  and  good  gentleman  ?  or  leave  him 
his  amiable  illusion?  He  resolved  on  the  former  course,  but, 
unable  to  check  some  contempt  for  blindness  so  persistent,  he 
said  rather  ironically : 

"  Of  course  you  have  no  doubt  about  the  depth  and  sincerity 
of  Mrs.  Scot's  attachment  for  you  ?  " 

"  Doubt ! "  cried  Mr.  Gervoise,  staring,  "  oh  ! .  of  course 
not!" 

Mr.  Stone  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  leaned  back  in 
his  chair,  and  bent  his  shrewd  eye  on  Mr.  Gervoise. 

"Mrs.  Scot  has  just  left,"  he  said,  "  and  she  came,  reversing 
the  usual  case,  to  give  her  late  master  a  character." 

Mr.  Gervoise  opened  his  mouth,  but  could  not  speak  at  once. 

"  To  give  me  a  character?  "  he  said  at  length. 

"  Oh  !  servants  will  do  that  sometimes,"  replied  Mr.  Stone, 
with  a  low,  knowing  laugh  ;  "  well,  I  will  not  repeat  the  charac- 
ter Mrs.  Scot  gave  you — it  was  not  a  flattering  oi^e,  and  did  not 
raise  my  opinion  of  her.     Mrs.  Scot  is  an  impostor  !  " 

"  Mr.  Stone,  you  take  my  breath  away ! "  exclaimed  Mr. 
Gervoise.  "  What  can  poor  Mrs.  Scot  have  said  or  done  to 
make  you  so  severe  ?  " 

"  Poor  Mrs.  Scot,  indeed !  I  tell  you  she  is  a  wretch  ! — an 
ungrateful,  vindictive  wretch  !  Trust  me,  Mr.  Gervoise,  I  have 
not  lived  in  retirement  like  you.  I  am  an  old  man  of  the 
world." 

"  Why,  yes,"  sighed  Mr.' Gervoise,  "  that  is  very  true  ;  and 
indeed,  Mr.  Stone,  I  have  the  greatest  faith  in  your  judgment ; 
only  I  can't — I  really  cannot  understand  it  at  all,  about  poor 
Mrs.  Scot — I  really  cannot." 

"  Mr.  Gervoise,  I  tell  you  that  poor  Mrs.  Scot  has  imposed 
upon  you.  She  told  you  some  story  about  that  Robinson  and 
the  gold  watch,  and  you  believed  her,  but  I  repeat  it,  she  is,  and 
always  was,  a  gross  impostor  !  " 

Mr.  Gervoise's  look  of  distress  made  Mr.  Stone  smile. 

"  You  don't  know  the  world,  my  dear  sir,"  he  said  kindly ; 
"  you  don't  know  the  world." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Stone,"  a  little  testily  replied  Mr. 
Gervoise,  "I  do  know  the  world;  but  Mrs.  Scot  is  not  the 
world,  is  she  ?  '\ 

"  Certainly  not ! — certainly  not !  " 

"  And  I  can't  help  thinking  you  are  mistaken  about  poor 
Mrs.  Scot ! "  persisted  this  good  man.  "  I  never  detected  any 
thing  of  the  kind  in  her— never ! " 


BEATRICE.  281 

"  I  dare  say  not." 

"  And  I  have  always  been  allowed  to  have  a  great  deal  of 
penetration,"  continued  Mr.  Gervoise,  "  and  great  insight  into 
character,  Mr.  Stone." 

Mr.  Stone  had  something  ado  not  to  laugh  at  this  absurd  as- 
sumption ;  but  good  breeding  kept  him  silent,  for  "just  so  "  was 
no  reply. 

"  And  on  the  whole,"  triumphantly  concluded  Mr.  Gervoise, 
"  I  do  think  it  was  all  a  mistake  of  yours  about  poor  Mrs.  Scot." 

If  Mr.  Gervoise  wanted,  by  this  persistent  declaration  of 
Mrs.  Scot's  innocence,  to  ascertain  what  Mrs.  Scot  had  said,  he 
was  disappointed.  Mr.  Stone  felt  excessively  bored  at  all  this. 
Indeed,  there  was  one  point  of  Mr.  Gervoise's  character  which 
he  had  detected  from  the  first,  and  that  was  that  Mr.  Gervoise 
was  a  bore  of  the  first  water.  So,  though  he  held  him,  alas  !  as 
a  good  sort  of  a  soft  stupid  man,  so  thick  was  the  bandage  Mr. 
Gervoise  had  placed  across  those  shrewd,  worldly  eyes  of  his, 
he  also  held  him  one  of  those  men  whom  the  wise  must  keep  at 
a  distance,  even  though  they  make  use  of  them. 

Mr.  Gervoise,  perceiving  he  could  get  nothing,  changed  his 
theme. 

"  There  is  no  one  within  hearing,"  he  whispered,  "  is  there, 
Mr.  Stone?" 

"  No  one,"  answered  that  gentleman,  rather  surprised  at  Mr. 
Gervoise's  mysterious  air. 

"Do  you  mind  shutting  the  window?"  continued  Mr. 
Gervoise. 

Mr.  Stone  did  not  mind,  so  the  window  was  shut.  Mr. 
Gervoise  drew  his  chair  near  to  Mr.  Stone's,  and  said  con- 
fidentially : 

"  I'm  in  a  mess." 

Now,  as  this  was  the  tenth  time  or  so  since  the  opening  of 
their  acquaintance  that  Mr.  Gervoise  had  come  to  him  with  this 
ominous  declaration,  and  the  tenth  time  or  so  that  Mr.  Stone 
had  had  to  get  him  out  of  the  deplorable  condition,  though  Mr. 
Gervoise's  messes  were  decidedly  light,  Mr.  Stone  did  not  show 
any  extraordinary  amount  of  concern,  but  merely  asked : 

"How  so?" 

"  About  the  child  !  "  So  Mr.  Gervoise  affectionately  called 
Beatrice  to  Mr.  Stone.  "  She  is  going  all  wrong,"  he  whispered, 
gently  tapping  his  forehead ;  "  and  I  cannot  let  her  marry 
Antony,  can  I  ?  " 

"  And  does  your  son,  knowing  this,  persist?  " 


282  BEATEICE. 

"  He  shuts  his  eyes — sees  and  believes  nothing." 

"And  you  think  she  is  really  wrong?"  said  Mr.  Stone, 
smiling. 

"  Think  !  Alas  !  I  am  sure.  Do  you  not  remember  all  I 
told  you  on  this  subject?  " 

"  Yes,  you  did  mention  something  of  the  kind." 

"  Her  new  freak  now  is  frantic  jealousy  of  Antony,  who, 
poor  boy,  gives  her  no  cause.  She  is  ready  to  scratch  his  eyes 
out  if  he  looks  at  another  woman,  and  there  was  a  scene  the 
other  day  because  he  said  Miss  Stone  was  pretty." 

'*I  was  not  aware  that  he  had  seen  her,"  drily  said  Mr. 
Stone. 

"  "Well,  I  am  not  sure  that  he  has  ;  but  he  is  a  baby,  and 
likes  to  tease,  and  now  he  has  come  back  to  Carnoosie,  and  I 
want  to  part  them,  and  how  am  I  to  do  it,  Mr.  Stone  ?  " 

"  Nothing  seems  easier  to  me — they  are  both  in  one  house- 
let  one  go." 

But  Mr.  Gervoise  could  not  manage  this  at  all. 

"  Can  you  not  invent  some  excuse  and  make  your  son  leave  ?" 

"  No,  Mr.  Stone,  I  cannot.  I  have  a  good  deal  of  insight 
and  penetration,  and  all  that,  but  I  am  a  perfect  fopl  at  inventing 
— I  can — not  do  it." 

Mr.  Stone,  with  his  hands  still  in  his  pockets,  smiled  benev- 
olently. 

"  Well,  then,"  he  said,  "  do  not  invent ;  get  Mrs.  Gervoise 
ordered  to  the  seaside,  and  take  her  and  Miss  Gordon  away." 

Mr.  Gervoise's  eyes  sparkled,  and  he  rubbed  his  hands  in  great 
glee. 

"  Capital ! "  he  said,  "  the  very  thing.  Fll  do  it  at  once. 
I'll  get  Mrs.  Gervoise  ordered  to  the  seaside — admirable — and 
take  the  child  away.     I  am  so  much  obliged  to  you  ! " 

He  was,  indeed,  much  obliged  to  Mr.  Stone,  and  shook  his 
hand  most  cordially. 

"  Shall  we  go  to  the  garden,"  said  Mr.  Stone,  "  and  join 
Rosy?" 

"  No,  thank  you,  I  must  go  home  and  impart  your  valuable 
suggestion  to  Mrs.  Gervoise,  without  whose  advice  I  never  act. 
Good  night,  and  good-bye,  Mr.  Stone,  for  I  may  not  see  you 
again  before  we  go.     I  am  so  much  obliged  to  you  ! " 

There  was  something  in  Mr.  G^rvoise's  tone,  something  like 
a  touch  of  irony,  which  startled  Mr.  Stone.  He  gave  him  a 
sharp  look,  but  the  room  was  dark.  Mr.  Gervoise's  face  gave 
him  no  clue,  and  that  passing  glimpse  of  light  left  no  trace  be- 


~\,)^ 


BEATRICE.  283 

hind  it ;  Mr.  Gervoise  was  a  simple,  stupid,  good  man,  who,  in- 
stead of  getting  his  crazy  step-daughter  locked  up,  indulged  her 
whims  to  the  verge  of  peril ;  and  Antony  Gervoise  was  a  foolish 
young  fellow,  who  would  marry  a  mad  girl  for  the  sake  of  her 
face.  With  this  infatuated  belief  in  the  danger  of  others,  and  in 
his  own  security,  Mr.  Stone  saw  Mr.  Gervoise  to  the  door,  and 
called  in  his  daughter  from  the  garden. 

It  was  some  time  before  Bosy  could  be  found  ;  at  length  she 
came,  and  whilst  Mr.  Gervoise  was  walking  home  to  consult 
with  Mrs.  Gervoise — without  whose  advice  he  never  did  any  thing 
— Mr.  Stone  sat  listening  to  Rosy — happy  little  Kosy ! — who 
was  warbling  away  at  her  piano  like  any  bird.  Sing  away,  poor 
little  bird,  sing  away,  do  not  think  of  the  storm  which  is  brood- 
ing over  your  peaceful  nest ! 

Mr.  Gervoise  liked  a  round-about  way  in  more  senses  than 
one.  Instead  of  crossing  the  forest,  he  now  walked  on  its  out- 
skirts, and  instead  of  going  straight  home  to  Carnoosie,  he  went 
down  to  the  hollow  in  which  nestled  Doctor  Rogerson's  cottage. 
The  garden-gate  stood  half  open,  the  house  door  was  ajar,  and  a 
sound  of  voices  proceeded  from  within.  Mr.  Gervoise  coughed 
gently,  then  pushing  the  door  open,  looked  in  most  benevolently 
around  the  untidy  parlour.  Mrs.  Rogerson  remained  aghast, 
and  Doctor  Rogerson,  who  was  taking  his  tea  and  nursing  the 
baby,  blushed  rosy  red,  and,  being  a  foolish  man,  longed,  in  the 
burning  shame  of  the  moment,  to  fling  the  baby  anywhere  out  of 
the  way. 

"  Don't  mind  me,  doctor,"  kindly  said  Mr.  Gervoise  ;  "  but 
if  it  is  not  too  much  trouble,  just  come  out  to  me  for  five  min- 
utes, will  you?" 

Doctor  Rogerson  handed  the  baby  to  his  wife,  and  leaving  by 
his  unfinished  tea,  at  once  went  out  to  Mr.  Gervoise.  Mr.  Ger- 
voise was  a  cautious  man ;  he  knew  that  walls  have  ears,  that 
bushes  even  are  treacherous,  and  he  led  Doctor  Rogerson  into  a 
green  paddock,  where  the  Doctor's  pony  was  grazing.  Mr.  Ger- 
voise gave  the  animal  a  shrewd  look,  and,  probably  thinking  him 
safe,  he  opened  the  matter  on  his  mind  with  much  less  ceremony 
than  if  he  had  been  speaking  to  Mr.  Stone. 

"  Doctor,"  he  said,  "  don't  you  think  Mrs.  Gervoise  wants  to 
travel?     It  would  do  her  good,  would  it  not?" 

"  It  certainly  would.  You  remember,  Mr.  Gervoise,  that  I 
suggested " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know  ;  but  as  I  said  it  would  do  her  good.  You 
would  recommend  France,  would  you  not?" — say  the  Norman 
sea-coast." 


284  BEATEIOE. 

"  Why,  no,  Mr.  Gervoise.  I  do  not  think  a  sea-joumey 
would  be  good  for  Mrs.  Gervoise." 

Mr.  Gervoise  stared. 

"  You  mean  to  say  that  the  air  of  my  native  province,  the 
sea-air  of  Normandy,  would  not  be  good  for  Mrs.  Gervoise?" 

"  Yes — I  am  indeed  afraid  it  would  be  injurious  to  her." 

"Afraid,  sir!  are  you  a  medical  man?  and  are  you.  not 
sure?" 

Mr.  Gervoise's  tone  was  aggressive  and  insolent.  It  was  the 
tone  of  a  man  who  wants  to  quarrel,  and  Doctor  Rogerson  per- 
ceived it  with  secret-  alarm.  He  gave  Mr.  Gervoise  a  scared 
look,  and  remained  silent. 

"  Well,  sir,  will  you  give  me  a  plain  answer  or  not?"  asked 
Mr.  Gervoise,  indignantly. 

"  I  have  given  it,"  was  the  mild  reply. 

Mr.  Gervoise  drew  back  two  steps,  and  looked  at  him  with 
scorn. 

Doctor  Rogerson,"  he  said,  "  I  ask  you  again  if  the  sea-air  of 
Normandy  will  not  be  the  very  best  thing  for  Mrs.  Gervoise, 
and  I  beg  you  to  answer  me  plainly  ? " 

"  Mr.  Gervoise,  I  have  given  you  my  opinion,  and  I  must 
give  it  again.  Mrs.  Gervoise  cannot  bear  sea-sickness — I  fear 
not,  at  least " 

"You  fear  not!"  hotly  interrupted  Mr.  Gervoise;  "you 
speak  in  a  tone  of  doubt  when  Mrs.  Gervoise's  welfare  is  at 
stake !  Sir,  you  do  not  understand  your  profession,  and  your 
attendance  on  Mrs.  Gervoise  is  at  an  end ! " 

Doctor  Rogerson  bowed. 

Mr.  Gervoise  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket. 

"  How  much  do  I  owe  you,  sir,"  he  asked,  imperatively. 

"  I  called  twice  on  Mrs.  Gervoise  since  you  were  so  kind  as 
to  advance  me  twenty  pounds,"  began  Doctor  Rogerson. 

"  Then,  sir,  you  owe  me  eighteen  pounds,"  interrupted  Mr. 
Gervoise,  and  he  looked  at  Doctor  Rogerson  as  much  as  to  say, 
"  Pay  me  this  instant." 

"  If  you  will  kindly  remember,  sir,  the  circumstances  under 
which  you  advanced  that  money,"  said  Doctor  Rogerson  timidly, 
"  you  will  see  that  it  is  not  in  my  power  to  pay  you  for  some 
time  yet." 

Mr.  Gervoise  stared  in  mute  indignation  at  this  dishonest 
debtor. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,  sir,"  he  asked  at  length  ;  "  do  you 
mean  to  say  that  you  are  going  to  keep  my  money  ? " 


BEATEICB.  285 

Doctor  Roger  son  raised  his  hands  in  token  of  deprecation. 

"  Oh  !  you  may  threaten  me,  sir  !"  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  with 
dignified  defiance.  "  I  have  your  I  O  U,  and  I  will  use  it,  sir, 
I  will  use  it.  I  know  my  duty  to  society,  and  I  will  not  allow 
it  to  become  your  victim  through  me." 

"  For  God's  sake,  Mr.  Gervoise,  have  alittle  mercy  upon  me  ! " 
piteously  cried  Doctor  Rogerson,  following  his  persecutor  with 
eager  entreaty.  "  Remember  how  openly  I  told  you  my  unfor- 
unate  position,  think  of  my  poor  dehcate  wife  ! " 

"  Did  you  think  of  mine,  sir,"  asked  Mr.  Gervoise.  "  Did 
you  not,  through  sheer  obstinacy,  cruel  obstinacy,  persist  in  say- 
ing that  the  sea-air  of  Normandy  would  be  bad  for  her  ?  No, 
sir,  you  were  pitiless  to  that  unhappy  lady  ;  expect  no  pity  from 
me." 

And  without  giving  Doctor  Rogerson  time  to  recover  from 
his  confusion  and  surprise,  or  even  to  put  in  a  word,  Mr.  Ger- 
voise walked  rapidly  away. 

Doctor  Rogerson  stood  looking  after  him  in  mute  despair.  He 
must  have  been  very  blind  and  obtuse  indeed  if  he  had  not  under- 
stood how  and  why  he  had  sinned,  but  this  knowledge  mended 
nothing,  and  only  made  his  misery  the  more  certain.  Pale  as  a 
ghost,  and  shaking  in  every  limb,  he  went  back  to  the  parlour 
where  Mrs.  Rogerson  sat  waiting,  indulging  in  rosy  dreams  of 
another  twenty-pound  note  volunteered  by  that  benevolent-look- 
ing gentleman. 

"  If  Doctor  Rogerson  will  only  have  the  sense  to  take  it ! " 
she  thought. 

It  was  then  Doctor  Rogerson  came  in,  looking,  as  we  said, 
pale  as  a  ghost;  but  the  room  was  well-nigh  dark  now,  and 
Mrs.  Rogerson  saw  and  suspected  nothing,  for  she  said : 

"  Doctor  Rogerson,  don't  you  think  you  could  get  a  leetle 
more  money  from  Mr.  Gervoise?  Twenty  pounds  will  never 
do,  never ! " 

Doctor  Rogerson  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  groaned. 

"  We  are  all  ruined,  Mary  ;  all  ruined  and  undone." 

Much  frightened,  Mrs.  Rogerson  rose  at  once,  and  went  to 
her  husband. 

"What  is  it,  Edward?"  she  asked,  in  a  terrified  whisper. 
"What  can  it  be?" 

"  He  wants  the  money  back,  and  we  are  all  ruined  and  all 
undone ! " 

"  But  you  can't  give  it,  Edward,  you  can't.     Tell  him  so." 

"  I*have  told  him  so  ;  but  he  has  my  I O  U,  and  I  tell  you 
we  are  ruined." 


286  BEATEIOE. 

It  is  always  hard  to  deceive  a  woman,  but  it  is  very  hard  to 
deceive  a  wife.  Mrs.  Rogerson  saw  there  was  more  in  this  than 
her  husband  had  told  her.  She  took  him  by  the  arm  and  led 
him  out  of  the  parlour,  where  the  children  had  stood  still,  in  the 
very  midst  of  their  playing,  to  look  and  listen  to  their  parents. 

"  Ned,  what  has  happened  ? "  she  asked,  when  they  stood 
outside  the  house  in  the  little  blooming  garden.  "What  can 
you  have  done  to  Mr.  Gervoise  ?  " 

"  Mary,  I  did  nothing  to  him — ^but  he  wanted  me  to  prescribe 
sea-air  and  Normandy  for  his  wife,  and  I  did  not." 

Mrs.  Rogerson  stared  and  clasped  her  hands. 

"  Good  gracious  !  Doctor  Rogerson,  how  could  you  act  so? 
What  harm  would  it  have  done  you  if  you  had  prescribed  Nor- 
mandy and  sea-air  to  Mrs.  Gervoise  ?  Why,  poor  lady !  I 
should  say  that  a  change  was  the  very  best  thing  for  her.  And 
for  you  to  go  and  risk  our  welfare  for  such  a  trifle.  I  am 
amazed  at  you." 

"  My  dear,  it  is  not  a  trifle.  Mr.  Gervoise  asked  my  opin- 
ion, and  I  gave  it.  I  do  believe  that  a  sea-journey  would  be  in- 
jurious to  Mrs.  Gervoise." 

"  But,  Doctor  Rogerson, how  can  you  be  sure?  And  surely, 
in  a  case  of  doubt,  you  might  give  us  the  benefit  of  it." 

"  My  dear,  I  had  no  suspicion  that  Mr.  Gervoise  wanted  his 
wife  to  travel.  He  generally  goes  a  roundabout  way  to  attain 
his  ends  or  give  his  opinion,  but  this  time  he  went  straight  on." 

"  Of  course  he  did.  It  is  all  your  imagination  to  think  he 
goes  roundabout.     Why  should  he  ?  " 

"  Mary,  don't  turn  against  me.  I  cannot  bear  it.  I  tell 
you  Mr.  Gervoise  wanted  to  quarrel  with  and  ruin  me,  and  that 
I  could  not  have  avoided  it." 

But  Mrs.  Rogerson  was  too  shrewd  to  take  so  limited  a  view 
of  the  subject. 

"  Nonsense  !  "  she  said,  decisively.  "  I  am  not  turning 
against  you,  Edward,  my  dear,  and  Mr.  Gervoise  did  not  want 
to  ruin  you  ;  but  he  wanted  you  to  sent  his  wife  to  France,  and 
you  would  not,  and  so  he  got  angry.  Rich  people  like  to  be  un- 
derstood on  the  first  hint,  and  I  dare  say  you  compelled  him,  in 
your  blundering  way,  to  speak  plainly,  instead  of  falling  in  at 
once  with  his  views." 

"  But,  my  dear,  I  could  not  do  that.     A  sea-journey " 

"  Now,  Doctor  Rogerson,  don't  tell  me  a  sea-journey  could 
do  any  one  any  harm.  I  wish  I  were  ordered  one,  and  Nor- 
mandy, and  sea-air  ! "  she  added,  with  a  sigh. 


BEATEICE.  28Y 

Doctor  Rogerson  sighed  too.  The  weary  burden  of  his 
cares,  which  had  for  awhile  been  lifted  off  his  shoulders,  now 
fell  on  them  once  more  with  tenfold  weight.  He  loved  his  wife 
and  his  children  very  dearly ;  but  oh !  how  he  longed  to  be 
lying  asleep  in  the  bed  of  the  little  river  he  could  hear  rippling 
along  in  the  gray  and  still  evening  !  No  such  thoughts  were  in 
Mrs.  Rogerson's  mind.  She  looked  languid,  yet  she  had  ten 
times  more  energy  than  her  husband,  and  she  had  but  one  thought 
now,  a  needful  one  in  this  pressing  peril,  and  that  was  how  best 
they  might  escape  the  danger  with  which  they  were  threatened. 

"Doctor  Rogerson,"  she  said  decisively,  "if  you  do  not 
order  Mrs.  Gervoise  to  the  sea-side,  some  one  else  will.  I  do 
not  see  why  you  should  not  have  the  benefit  of  it ! " 

"  Mary  !  my  conscience,  my  honour  !  " 

"  Doctor  Rogerson,  do  you  mean  to  say  that  I  would  advise 
any  thing  against  either  !  " 

"  No,  my  dear,  but  if  I  do  this " 

"  And  why  should  you  not  do  it  ?"  asked  his  wife.  "Are 
you  sure  it  will  injure  her  ?  You  are  not,  but  you  are  sure  it 
will  be  done  ;  and  with  that  doubt  on  your  mind  you  will  ruin 
us  ?  That  is  not  conscience  or  honour,  Edward,  it  is  pride,  false 
pride,  and  no  more." 

She  spoke  excitedly  and  fast,  perhaps  not  to  hear  a  secret 
voice  that  pleaded  against  the  sophistry  of  her  argument.  Her 
husband  listened  to  her  with  a  troubled  heart,  and  he  seemed  to 
hear  the  soft  low  tones  of  his  dead  mother  teaching  him  those 
words  of  the  Lord's  prayer  :  "  Lead  us  not  into  temptation." 

Alas  1  where  was  the  pure  and  lofty  ideal  of  their  honey- 
moon when  young,  happy,  and  free  as  yet  from  the  bonds  of 
life,  they  spoke  of  their  stainless  future  with  innocent  pride. 

Oh !  what  sad  havoc  this  hard  world  does  make  with  the 
dreams  of  the  innocent  and  the  young  !  What  a  downfall  with 
more  than  Doctor  Rogerson  and  his  wife  ! 

In  these  sad  struggles  between  conscience  and  necessity  it  is 
often  woman  who  takes  the  part  of  tempter,  and  a  pitiless 
tempter  Mrs.  Rogerson  now  was  to  her  husband.  She  proved 
to  him  that  unless  he  yielded  to  Mr.  Gervoise  he  was  a  ruined 
man,  and  that  therefore  he  could  not  yield  too  soon  nor  yet  too 
readily. 

"  I  shall  see  to-morrow  morning,"  said  the  poor  man. 

"  To-morrow  morning !  you  may  then  spare  yourself  the 
trouble  and  the  humiliation,  Doctor  Rogerson.  By  to-morrow 
morninff  another  medical  man  will  have  been  called  in  and  will 


288  BEATKICE. 

have  received  a  guinea  for  saying  what  it  will  cost  you  eighteen 
and  your  home  not  to  have  said." 

Doctor  Rogerson  groaned. 

"  It  is  no  use  groaning,"  said  his  wife  in  a  clear,  hard  voice, 
"  do  it  at  once,  or  do  not  do  it  at  all." 

He  still  stood  irresolute,  looking  desperately  at  the  starry 
sky. 

"  Jane,"  said  Mrs.  Rogerson,  "  bring  your  papa  his  hat  and 
cane." 

Jane  obeyed.  Her  little  innocent  hands  put  the  hat  and  cane 
into  her  father's,  and  felt  them  shake  like  an  aspen-leaf.  He 
took  both,  and  went  away  without  uttering  a  word.  His  wife's 
heart  smote  her  for  the  part  she  had  acted.  She  ran  after  her 
husband,  and  soon  overtaking  him,  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"  Edward,"  she  said  softly,  "  don't  go  if  you  feel  you  can't 
do  it.  We  have  struggled  twelve  years  together  and  can  bear 
ruin  if  it  should  come  to  the  worst." 

Doctor  Rogerson  turned  round  and  kissed  his  wife  in  the 
darkness,  then  he  put  her  away  without  a  word  and  went  on. 
He  went  on  as  many  a  better  man  has  gone  before  him,  to  seek 
disgrace  and  shame  for  the  sake  of  those  he  loved. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

Mrs.  Gekvoise  was  very  unwell  that  evening.  The  night 
was  sultry,  and  she  complained  of  the  closeness  of  Carnoosie, 

"  It  is  such  heavy  air,"  she  said  to  Beatrice.  "  Oh  !  how  I 
do  long  for  a  change  !  I  thought  I  should  have  one  when  you 
got  of  age." 

"  My  poor  darling,"  softly  whispered  Beatrice,  bending  over 
her  mother,  "you  are  not  well,  and  this  is  a  close  evening,  but 
Carnoosie  is  fresh  and  breezy  enough." 

She  said  no  more,  for,  contrary  to  his  habit,  Mr.  Gervoise 
now  joined  the  ladies.  He  looked  very  bright  and  cheerful,  and 
hearing  his  wife  sigh  and  complain,  he  said  pleasantly : 

"  My  dear,  I  know  what  ails  you,  we  are  too  dull.  You 
want  society.  It  is  a  pity  Beatrice  will  not  have  the  Stones 
here." 

Beatrice  could  scarcely  repress  a  start.  The  whole  of  that 
day  she  had  been  wondering  how  she  could  make  the  Stones 
come  to  Carnoosie  in  spite  of  Mr.  Gervoise,  and  now  he  sug- 
gested it  of  his  own  accord.  Habitual  distrust  bade  her  not  be- 
lieve in  his  sincerity.  Since  he  said  he  wished  the  Stones  to 
come,  it  was  sure  proof  he  objected  to  it  with  all  his  might. 

"  I  don't  care  about  the  Stones,"  querulously  said  Mrs.  Ger- 
voise, "  but  I  long,  oh !  I  do  long  for  a  little  change,  Mr.  Ger- 
voise." 

"  My  dear,  change  would  do  you  no  good  ;  besides,  you  know 
of  old  my  decision  on  this  subject." 

Mrs.  Gervoise  sighed,  and  Beatrice  gave  her  step-father  an 
indignant  look,  which  he  received  with  a  mild  smile. 

"  But  we  ought  to  have  the  Stones,"  he  resumed.  "  Do  you 
still  object,  Beatrice  ?  " 

"  No,"  haughtily  replied  Miss  Gordon.  "  They  may  come 
or  not,  it  is  a  matter  of  no  moment  to  me." 

"  My  dear,"  said  her  step-father  with  mild  reproof,  "  how 
often  must  I  tell  you  that  this  tone  is  unbecoming  and  strange," 
13 


290  BEATRICE. 

Beatrice's  lip  curled  with  scorn,  but  she  did  not  deign  to  re- 
ply.    Mr.  Gervoise  continued : 

"  The  Stones  are  charming  people,  and  if  you  do  not  like 
them  it  can  only  be  because  you  do  not  know  them.  Mr.  Stone 
is  a  man  of  sound  practical  sense,  his  daughter  is  exquisitely  art- 
less— I  called  there  to-day,  and  found  her  quite  engaging.  She 
prattled  about  her  poor,  and  her  schools,  and  flannel  petticoats, 
and  tracts,  in  the  most  innocent  and  natural  fashion.  She  is  not 
brilliant  or  witty,  certainly,  but  she  is  a  sweet  little  thing.  I 
wish  I  could  remember  the  story  she  told  about  the  old  woman 
to  whom  she  gave  a  cloak,  and  who  wanted  a  fur  collar  to  it — 
her  father  and  I  were  ready  to  split  our  sides  with  laughing. 
And  she  did  look  quite  a  quaint  little  thing — a  real  Dutch  pic- 
ture it  was." 

Mr.  Gervoise,  we  need  not  say,  was  fpnd  of  introducing  pic- 
tures, Dutch  or  not,  in  his  conversation ;  and,  as  Beatrice  was 
acquainted  with  this  amiable  and  picturesque  peculiarity  of  his, 
she  made  no  doubt  that  this  view  of  Miss  Stone  was  a  thoroughly 
Gervoise  view.  But  what  was  all  this  waste  of  eloquent  and 
imaginative  speech  to  lead  to  ? 

"  Since  you  do  not  object  to  having  them,"  continued  Mr. 
Gervoise,  "  I  think  we  had  better  ask  them  to  spend  a  week 
here.  What  room  shall  Mr.  Stone  have  ?  I  really  think  Mrs. 
Scot's  room  will  do  very  well.  And  suppose  we  give  Miss 
Jameson's  to  Rosy.  We  can  put  in  the  blue  furniture  to  make 
it  a  little  bit  smart,  and  a  rosewood  table  or  two." 

There  was  a  restlessness  in  Mr.  Gervoise's  mind  which  made 
even  useless  planning  and  scheming  pleasant  to  him.  Nothing 
was  further  from  his  thoughts  than  having  the  Stones  at  Car- 
noosie  ;  he  did  not  even  intend  asking  them  to  come,  but  still  it 
was  pleasant  to  worry  his  wife  and  Beatrice  with  plans  for  their 
reception.  As  Beatrice  would  not  reply,  he  insisted  on  making 
Mrs.  Gervoise  talk,  and  give  her  opinion  concerning  the  blue 
furniture  and  the  rosewood  tables. 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  know,  Mr.  Gervoise,"  said  the  poor  lady. 
*'  I  only  know  that  I  am  quite  unwell  this  evening,  and  that  I 
wish  Doctor  Kogerson  were  here." 

"  To-morrow,  my  dear,"  soothingly  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  "  to- 
morrow morning,  early." 

*'  This  evening — at  once,"  impetuously  said  Beatrice.  "  My 
mother  wishes  for  Doctor  Roger  son,  and  he  shall  be  sent  for." 

She  rang  the  bell.     Mr.  Gervoise  rose. 

"Miss  Gordon,"  he  said  severely, '^  Doctor  Rogerson  may 


BEATEICE.  291 

com«  once  more,  since  Mrs.  Gervoise  wishes  for  him,  but  I  do 
not  think  him  a  competent  adviser,  and  I  shall  provide  her  with 
another  of  my  own  choosing,  Miss  Gordon." 

"  Never  with  my  consent  shall  a  doctor  of  your  choosing 
prescribe  for  my  mother,"  defiantly  said  Beatrice. 

The  door  opened  as  she  spoke,  and  on  the  threshold  appeared 
a  servant  answering  her  summons. 

"  Send_^for  Doctor  Rogerson  at  once,"  imperatively  said  Miss 
Gordon. 

"  Doctor  Rogerson  is  below,  ma'am." 

Intuitively  Beatrice  looked  at  her  step-father.  A  little  gleam 
of  triumph  shone  in  his  eyes.  She  felt  vaguely  that  she  had 
fallen  into  a  trap,  though  how  so,  and  of  what  nature  it  was,  she 
could  not  tell. 

"  Show  him  up,"  she  said  hesitatingly. 

The  door  closed ;  then  in  a  few  minutes  opened  again,  and 
Doctor  Rogerson  entered  the  room.  Beatrice  stood  at  its  fur- 
ther extremity  ;  she  saw  him  advance  slowly,  with  his  subdued, 
shy  bearing,  and  the  mistrust  she  had  ever  felt  against  this  man 
rose  keen  and  strong  within  her,  for  Doctor  Rogerson  was  pale, 
and  if  his  look  was  calm,  it  was  dull  and  cold,  and  Beatrice  felt 
that  it  shunned  hers.  She  'walked  toward  him,  but  did  not  give 
him  her  hand. 

"  Good  evening.  Doctor,"  she  said  hurriedly.  "  Mamma  is 
very  restless,  and  we  were  going  to  send  for  you  when  you 
came." 

"  I  saw  it  was  a  sultry  evening,  and  knowing  Mrs.  Gervoise 
was  but  poorly  yesterday,  I  thought  I  would  call  in." 

He  said  it  quietly  enough,  but  still  his  look  shunned  Beatrice's 
keen  eye. 

"  That  man  is  bought — ^bought ! "  she  thought  with  rapid 
conviction.  She  sank  down  in  a  chair,  and  leaned  her  forehead 
on  her  hand  in  a  strange  confusion  of  mind.  What  was  she  to 
do  ?  What  did  Mr.  Gervoise  intend  ?  For  a  moment  she  forgot 
her  mother ;  she  saw  Mr.  Stone's  shrewd  face,  or  she  heard 
Rosy's  girlish  laugh,  and  she  felt  herself  involved  in  their  destiny. 
She  roused  herself  to  listen  to  her  mother's  languid  voice. 

"  Doctor  Rogerson,"  she  was  saying,  "  I  feel  so  weak.  Car- 
noosie  is  so  close." 

Beatrice  half  turned  round  and  looked  at  Doctor  Rogerson. 
He  was  sitting  near  the  sick  lady's  couch ;  his  downcast  eyes 
were  fastened  on  the  hat  he  held  between  his  knees  ;  his  pale 
lips  moved  with  mechanical  regularity  as  he  replied : 


292  BEATRICE. 

"The  air  of  Carnoosie  is  excellent,  my  dear  lady,  but  you 
certainly  want  a  change."  • 

"  A  change  ! "  interrupted  Mr.  ,Gervoise,  in  a  tone  which 
might  be  sharp  or  surprised,  Beatrice  could  not  say  which. 
"  And  what  change  would  you  recommend.  Doctor  Rogerson?  " 

"  Sea-air !  "  replied  Doctor  Rogerson,  slowly.  ."  Continental 
sea-air,  there  is  less  moisture  in  it  than  in  ours." 

"Dear  me!"  cried  Mr.  Gervoise,  "I  should  never  have 
thought  that.  Doctor  Rogerson.  For  my  part,  I  think  no  air 
equal  to  British  air,  coast  or  inland,  it  is  of  the  finest  quality." 

"  For  some  complaints  continental  sea-air  is  much  better," 
said  Doctor  Rogerson. 

"  Oh  !  I  should  like  it  so  !  I  should  like  it  of  all  things  ! " 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Gervoise,  looking  imploringly  at  her  husband. 
Mr.  Gervoise  seemed  to  hesitate. 

"  Doctor  Rogerson,"  he  said  impressively,  "  I  do  not  hide 
from  you  that  it  is  extremely  inconvenient  for  me  to  leave  Car- 
noosie just  now.  I  put  it  to  your  conscience,  now,  is  it  really 
necessary  that  Mrs.  Gervoise  should  have  continental  sea-air?" 

Beatrice  bent  forward  and  fastened  her  searching  dark  eyes 
on  Doctor  Rogerson's  face.  She  saw  his  troubled  look  seek  Mr. 
Mr.  Gervoise's,  as  if  asking,  "Why  inflict  this  useless  torment 
on  me  ?  "  And  though  she  did  not  understand  its  meaning,  that 
look  alarmed  her.  But  Mr.  Gervoise  was  not  the  man  whom  looks 
could  soften,  and  Doctor  Rogerson  had  gone  too  far  to  recede. 
With  a  trembling  lip,  but  a  tolerably  firm  voice,  he  said : 

"It  is  really  necessary  that  Mrs.  Gervoise  should  have  con- 
tinental sea-air." 

And  having  given  his  conscience,  his  honour,  and  his  profes- 
sional skill  this  distinct  lie,  the  unhappy  man  rose,  and  muttering 
a  low  good  evening,  he  hastened  to  leave  the  room  in  which  his 
shame  had  been  consummated. 

Beatrice  saw  him  go  without  stirring,  but  when  the  door  had 
closed  upon  him,  she  too  rose. 

"  Beatrice,  where  are  you  going?  "  coolly  asked  Mr.  Gervoise, 
stepping  across  her  path. 

With  a  queenly  gesture  of  disdain,  Beatrice  put  him  aside 
and  walked  out,  not  deigning  to  close  the  door  behind  her,  and 
Mr.  Gervoise  did  not  dare  to  follow  her.  Beatrice  swiftly  went 
down-stairs  and  overtook  Doctor  Rogerson  at  the  bottom  of  the 
staircase.  She  opened  the  door  of  the  library  and  signed  more 
than  she  asked  him  to  enter.  He  obeyed  with  some  embarrass- 
ment, and  the  secret  fear  of  a  conscience  ill  at  ease. 


BEATEICE. 

"  Doctor  Rogerson,"  impetuously  asked  Beatrice,  "  how  and 
what  is  this  ?  You  have  always  spoken  against  a  change,  forbid- 
den sea-journeys — why  do  you  recommend  them  now?  " 

The  imprudent  question  put  Doctor  Rogerson  on  his  guard. 

"  The  complaint  from  which  Mrs.  Gervoise  is  suffiering  is 
undergoing  a  great  change,"  he  said,  "  and  change  of  treatment 
is  required." 

Beatrice  looked  at  him  unconvinced.  She  longed  to  tell  him 
plainly : 

"  You  are  bought.  Doctor  Rogerson ;  tell  me  you  are  bought, 
and  I  will  buy  you,  too,"  but  shame  for  the  man  held  her  back, 
and  that  shame  proved  Doctor  Rogerson' s  undoing. 

"  You  must  be  telling  me  the  truth,"  she  said  very  bitterly, 
"you  cannot  deceive  me,  can  you,  Doctor  Rogerson?" 

A  deep  indignant  flush  dyed  Doctor  Rogerson's  pale  cheeks. 

"  Deceiving  you,  madam  !  " 

Beatrice  laughed,  and  tried  to  appear  careless. 

"  Deceiving  yourself,  I  mean.  Good  evening.  Doctor  Roger- 
son.  Do  not  be  offended  with  me.  You  know  me  of  old ;  I  al- 
ways say  the  wrong  thing,  but  I  mean  the  right  one." 

She  spoke  kindly,  for  Beatrice  had  learned  to  rule  her  tones, 
and  if  Doctor  Rogerson  was  bought  he  was  an  enemy,  and  a 
dangerous  one,  and  he  must  be  dealt  with  carefully  ;  but  though 
she  opened  the  front  door  for  him  herself,  and  saw  him  to  the 
threshold  of  the  house,  she  did  not  give  him  her  hand. 

Doctor  Rogerson  noticed  it,  and  what  was  more,  he  knew 
what  it  meant.  The  circle  of  shame  which  had  begun  with  his 
wife  was  spreading  fast  around  him.  It  would  soon  be  broad 
and  endless  as  a  sea. 

Six  in  the  morning  of  the  next  day  was  the  hour  appointed 
for  the  journey.  This  haste  would  have  confirmed  Beatrice  had 
she  needed  confirmation  in  the  conviction  that  so  extraordinary 
an  infraction  to  Mr.  Gervoise's  resolve  never  to  let  his  wife  leave 
Camoosie,  must  have  been  planned  by  that  gentleman  himself. 

Mrs.'  Gervoise  went  to  bed  early,  lest  she  should  oversleep 
herself,  and  Beatrice  sat  alone  in  the  library  by  the  open  window. 
She  knew  they  were  going  to  Verville,  and,  as  she  looked  at  the 
deep  dark  sky  where  stars  burned  with  a  trembling  light,  deli- 
cious languor  stole  into  her  veins  and  invaded  her  whole  being. 
She,  too,  was  bribed,  and  though  not  bought,  she  felt  how  sweet 
and  fatal  temptation  can  be  made.  What  money  was  to  the 
needy  Doctor  Rogerson,  what  change  was  to  her  mother,  Gilbert 
was  to  her.     She  could  not  put  away  that  sweet  cup,  but,  even, 


294:  BEATRICE. 

though  she  drained  it,  she  would  not  sell  her  conscience  to  Mr. 
Grervoise.  He  was  sending  her  out  of  the  way,  lest  she  should 
speak. 

"  But  he  shall  find  that  I  can  speak  before  going,"  thought 
Beatrice. 

She  heard  a  step  at  the  door  of  the  library,  and  without  wait- 
ing for  the  knock,  she  opened  and  found  John  outside. 

This  uncouth  old  servant  of  the  old  Carnoosies,  who  neither 
liked  nor  flattered  her,  but  who  was  least  under  Mr.  Gervoise's 
influence,  was  Beatrice's  favourite.  He  now  came  rather  grumb- 
ling at  this  unusual  summons,  but  when  his  young  mistress  said : 
"  I  want  to  have  a  walk  in  the  forest,  and  you  must  come  with 
me,"  his  brow  cleared,  he  nodded,  and  followed  her  in  a  more 
pacific  mood.  The  old  Carnoosies  had  been  an  eccentric  race  ; 
indeed,  there  had  been  a  touch  of  madness  in  their  blood,  and 
they  had  been  fond  of  doing  strange  things.  Little  as  Beatrice 
was  in  John's  good  graces,  she  now  and  then  won  his  favour  by 
out-of-the-way  proceedings  in  which  no  person  of  vulgar  lineage 
would  have  indulged.  This  night  walk  in  the  forest  took  John's 
fancy  amazingly.  None  of  your  namby-pamby  young  ladies 
would  have  thought  of  it,  would  they  ?  No,  it  was  that  drop 
of  the  old  Carnoosie  blood  which  was  in  Miss  Beatrice  that  made 
her  do  it. 

The  moon  had  risen  as  Beatrice  walked  through  the  grounds 
at  a  quick  step,  followed  by  John,  trotting  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets.  It  was  a  bright  clear  night  now.  The  sultriness  had 
passed  from  the  air,  the  trees  rose  vast  and  dark  against  a  deep 
sky,  and  in  the  stillness  sounded  the  little  river  rippling  pleas- 
antly. They  entered  the  forest,  and  still  Beatrice  went  on  with 
a  light  and  happy  step.  Alas  !  the  spell  was  around  her.  It 
was  not  the  errand  on  which  she  was  going  that  Beatrice  thought 
of.  No,  she  thought  of  the  evening  when  she  and  Gilbert  were 
lost  in  the  forest ;  of  that  other  evening  when  they  met  and  parted 
and  spoke  for  the  last  time,  of  the  love  that  had  been  in  their 
hearts  so  long ;  and  beyond  that  world  of  waving  trees,  Beatrice 
thought  of  the  French  shore,  and  of  Gilbert  to  be  seen  again  after 
the  longing  of  the  last  four  months.  Wonder  not  if,  though  her 
errand  was  a  sad  one,  she  felt  happy  and  gay.  She  could  not 
help  it ;  that  world  of  our  own  hopes  and  desires  within  which 
we  all  live,  was  around  her  then. 

John  whistled  internally,  when,  as  they  reached  the  skirt  of 
the  forest,  Beatrice  asked  if  he  knew  the  way  to  Mr.  Stone's  cot- 
This  was  more  than  a  common  freak,  then,  this  night 


BEATRICE.  295 

walk  in  tlie  forest ;  it  was  and  must  be  some  act  of  rebellion 
against  Mr.  Gervoise.  Now,  if  John  did  not  mucli  like  Beatrice, 
he  liked  Mr.  Gervoise  infinitely  less ;  for  if  Beatrice  was  not 
much  of  a  Carnoosie,  Mr.  Gervoise  was  a  foreigner  and  an  in- 
truder, and  he  had  no  business  in  Carnoosie  at  all.  With  secret 
glee,  therefore,  did  he  feel  that  Beatrice  was  flying  in  Mr.  Ger- 
voise's  face,  and  with  chuckling  satisfaction  and  most  amiable 
alacrity  did  he  abet  the  same. 

"  That  is  Mr.  Stone's  cottage  where  the  lights  are  burning, 
miss,"  said  John,  after  awhile. 

"  Well,  then,  go  on  before  me  ;  ring  the  bell,  and  ask  if  Mr. 
Stone  is  within.  If  he  is,  tell  him  I  want  to  speak  to  him 
alone." 

John  did  as  he  was  bid.  Beatrice,  who  followed  him  close, 
heard  the  cottage  door  open  and  the  servant  reply  that  his  master 
was  at  home.  John  delivered  his  message,  and  Miss  Gordon 
quietly  entered  the  house,  and  was  shown  into  the  same  parlour 
where  Mrs.  Scot  had  been  received  a  few  hours  before.  There 
she  sat  down,  listening  to  the  sounds  that  came  from  the  neigh- 
bouring drawing-room,  to  Rosy's  silver  laughter,  and  to  her 
father's  heavier  tones.  Both  suddenly  ceased.  The  door  open- 
ed, and  Mr.  Stone  advanced  toward  her  with  a  wondering  look. 

"  You  are  surprised,"  said  Beatrice  quietly  ;  "  and  well  you 
may  be.  We  are  leaving  Carnoosie  early  to-morrow,  and  I 
should  come  to-night  or  not  at  all." 

Mr.  Stone  bowed,  and  looked  at  her  keenly.  She  was  very 
handsome,  but  she  was  flushed  and  excited,  and  surely  there  was 
lurking  insanity  in  those  dark  eyes  of  hers,  so  strangely  fuU  and 
brilliant. 

Unconscious  of  his  thoughts,  Beatrice  sadly  wondered  if  he 
would  believe  her. 

"  I  have  no  time  to  break  this  matter  to  you,"  she  said,  after 
a  short  pause.  "  I  must  be  both  plain  and  brief.  I  come  to 
give  you  an  important  warning  concerning  your  daughter  and 
Mr.  Gervoise's  younger  son." 

Mr.  Stone  smiled. 

"  He  has  been  a  frequent  visitor  here  of  late,"  resumed 
Beatrice. 

"  No,"  interrupted  Mr.  Stone,  "  he  never  comes  here." 

Beatrice  looked  bewildered,  then  her  eyes  flashed. 

"  He  meets  your  daughter  in  secret,"  she  said  vehemently, 
"  that  is  it,  that  is  it." 

Mr.  Stone  reddened,  and  looked  silently  indignant. 


296  BEATRICE. 

".  Forgive  me,"  resumed  Beatrice,  "  but  I  know  that  unhappy- 
young  man,  and  whr*:  I  do  not  know  I  guess.  For  God's  sake, 
sir,  take  care,  be  on  your  guard,  take  care,  if  you  love  your 
child." 

Mr.  Stone's  indignation  had  calmed  down,  and  Beatrice  felt 
he  was  more  intent  in  watching  her  than  in  heeding  her  warn- 
ing. 

"  You  do  not  believe  me,"  she  said ;  "  ah !  yours  is  a  hope- 
less case  indeed." 

"  My  dear  young  lady,"  quietly  said  Mr.  Stone,  "  you  forget 
that  I  am  no  boy,  and  that  I  have  taken  the  habit  of  trusting  an 
experience  of  men  and  women  which,  up  to  the  present,  has  not 
failed  me." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  that,"  replied  Beatrice,  "  for  ia  that 
case  you  wiU  rely  upon  it  and  be  deceived  at  last." 

"  I  hope  not,"  composedly  said  Mr.  Stone. 

Beatrice  looked  at  him  compassionately. 

"  And  that  is  life,"  she  said  with  a  sigh ;  "  that  is  how  warn- 
ings come  and  are  not  heeded,  and  then  we  quarrel  with  Provi- 
dence for  having  given  us  the  very  fate  we  sought.  Well,  Mr. 
Stone,"  she  added  after  a  pause,  "lean  say  no  more  than  I  have 
said,  and  yet  I  wiU  add  this :  Mr.  Gervoise  and  his  son  have 
been  many  years  in  this  neighbourhood ;  they  are  well  known, 
question  and  seek  to  know ;  perhaps  you  will  get  information 
which  may  stagger  you." 

Mr.  Stone  smiled,  and  laying  his  hand  on  her  arm,  he  said 
soothingly : 

"  My  dear  young  lady,  I  need  no  such  information — you  are 
quite  mistaken — quite — ^you  came  to  warn  me — allow  me  to 
advise  you.  Another  time  think  twice  before  you  take  the  step 
you  have  taken  this  evening.  Think  that  it  may  be  unpleasantly 
construed  ;  that  few  men  will  be  so  charitable  as  not  to  attribute 
to  you  some  personal  motive  of  pique — of  feminine  resentment — 
in  short,  something  you  would  not  like  to  be  taxed  with  in  return 
for  your  unsohcited  kindness.  I  do  not  say  such  is  my  impres- 
sion.    I  only  bid  you  take  care  another  time." 

Beatrice  rose.    Her  face  burned  with  indignation  and  shame. 

"  When  we  meet  again,  Mr.  Stone,"  she  said — "  if  we  do 
meet — remember  this  evening." 

Mr.  Stone  heard  her  unmoved.  She  was  mad.  This  night 
visit  was  the  act  of  a  madwoman,  and  certainly  of  a  jealous  and 
vindictive  girl.  Should  he  inflict  on  his  understanding  the  insult 
of  heeding  her  even  for  a  moment?    He  smiled  derisively  at  the 


BEATRICE.  297 

thought,  and  for  the  second  time  that  evening  refused  to  heed  the 
warning  sent  by  Providence. 

Thus  they  parted,  soon  to  meet  again.  John  thrust  his  hands 
into  his  pockets,  and  walked  behind  his  young  mistress  through 
the  forest  with  the  conscientious  satisfaction  of  having  fully 
abetted  her  freak.  But  sad  was  Beatrice's  mood  on  her  return. 
A  sense  of  melancholy  which  she  could  not  conquer  oppressed 
her.  She  thought  no  more  of  the  sweet  past,  or  of  the  pleasant 
morrow ;  she  forgot  Gilbert  and  their  approaching  meeting. 
She  only  thought  of  that  calmly-blind  Mr.  Stone,  and  of  his 
daughter's  silver  laughter.  "And  why  should  that  fair  girl 
trouble  me?"  thought  Beatrice,  as  she  walked  along  the  chill 
avenue  of  the  silent  forest ;  "  is  she  not  guarded  by  her  father's 
boasted  experience  ? — is  she  not  protected  by  a  love  which  I  never 
enjoyed?  Have  I  not  warned?  Is  not  Mr.  Gervoise  known? 
Poor  little  fair,  blue-eyed  thing !  I  do  think  of  her,  and  my 
heart  aches  !  And  yet  even  if  the  worst  should  come,  this  is  but 
one  of  the  countless  sad  stories  which  fill  this  world,  and  against 
which  we  are  powerless.  Nations,  races,  heroes,  kings,  and 
queens  are  there  to  tell  it.  Greece  bled  six  hundred  years  ;  Po- 
land was  rent  asunder,  and  Europe  looked  on.  Mary  Stuart, 
Charles,  Louis  Seize,  and  Marie  Antoinette  died  on  a  scaffold 
even  in  the  days  when  kings  were  as  gods  among  men.  She 
must  bear  her  fate  and  run  her  chance.  I  cannot  help  it.  I  have 
done  all  I  could — I  must  forget  her  ! " 

We  need  not  say  that  Mr.  Gervoise  had  not  long  remained 
ignorant  of  Beatrice's  excursion ;  and  no  more  than  Beatrice 
need  we  wonder  to  find  him  sitting  up  for  her  and  John.  Indeed, 
Mr.  Gervoise  carried  condescension  so  far  as  to  come  out  and 
meet  his  step-daughter  on  the  staircase.  She  saw  him,  and 
went  up  toward  him,  the  gas-light  shining  on  her  bright,  hand- 
some face,  her  gloved  hand  resting  on  the  banisters,  and  looking 
"  a  right-plucked  one,  every  bit  of  her,"  as  John  internally 
remarked. 

"  My  dear  Beatrice,  we  have  been  so  uneasy,"  said  Mr. 
Gervoise  ;  "  where  have  you  been  all  this  time  ?" 

"  Taking  the  air,"  saucily  answered  Beatrice. 

"  Allow  me  to  remark  that  it  is  highly  imprudent  in  you  to 
do  so  at  such  an  hour." 

Beatrice's  reply  secured  John's  heart  for  ever.  Turning 
toward  him  with  a  bright  smile,  she  said,  "  John  was  with  me." 

Then,  seeming  to  think  Mr.  Gervoise  answered,  she  went  up 
past  him  to  her  room. 
13* 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

Do  you  know  the  French  coast,  reader  ? — especially  do  you 
know  that  line,  dotted  with  villages  and  towns  and  bays,  which 
extends  from  Dieppe  to  Havre,  skirting  with  the  blue  sea  the 
green  Norman  landscape  ?  If  so,  you  surely  know  Verville  ;  not 
under  that  name,  perhaps — ^but  what  about  a  name?  Shake- 
speare has  told  us  that  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  sweetness  of 
a  rose ;  and  call  Verville  by  what  name  you  please,  it  is  none 
the  less  one  of  the  prettiest  nooks  in  Normandy.  It  lies  in  a 
cleft  of  the  steep  white  coast  which  shuts  out  the  encroaching 
sea.  A  clear  and  rapid  little  river  shaded  by  trees  flows  in  the 
narrow  valley,  and  turns  on  its  way  the  wheel  of  many  a  mill. 
Thatched  houses  rise  on  the  slopes,  and  look  out  at  the  sea,  or 
down  on  the  green  valley  where  the  old  abbey  church — ^half- 
hidden  in  the  verdure  of  broad  orchards — stands  lone  and  grey. 
In  a  quiet  lane  at  the  end  of  an  avenue  rises  the  chateau ;  it  was 
partly  demolished  during  the  revolutionary  times,  and  there  are 
places  in  the  roof  where  thatch  has  replaced  tile  and  slate.  It 
is  an  old  building,  quaint  and  solid,  but  by  no  means  beautiful. 
Painters  like  its  conical-roofed  turrets  and  its  ivy-covered  front, 
and  broad-arched  gate,  and  that  green  wilderness  which  extends 
around  it,  and  spreads  on  to  the  edge  of  the  sea-girt  cliffs  ;  but 
the  chateau  is  old  and  dismal  to  live  in,  and  it  has  neither  pic- 
turesque grounds,  nor  flower-garden,  nor  any  of  the  charms  of 
modern  comfort.  It  is  what  many  such  a  place  was  in  the  olden 
time — the  dwelling  fit  for  peasant  nobles,  and  it  is  no  more. 

Melancholy  though  this  old  house  looked,  and  dismal  as  were 
the  rooms,  it  was  lovely  in  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Gervoise  after  the 
captivity  of  twelve  weary  years.  And  Beatrice,  too,  felt  her 
heart  beat  with  secret  joy  as  she  passed  through  those  dark  old 
chambers,  and  thought  that  here  Gilbert  was  born  and  had  been 
reared,  and  that  here,  too,  perhaps,  she  might  see  him  again. 
He  had  not  come  as  yet,  but  Mr.  Gervoise  was  gone,  no  doubt, 
to  lure  him  to  the  chateau ;  and  Beatrice  hoped  and  waited  in 


BEATRICE.  299 

the  room  wliicli  had  been  selected  for  her  mother.  Evening  had 
come  on ;  and  Mrs.  Gervoise  sat  a  little  back  from  the  open 
window,  but  Beatrice,  half-leaning  out,  was  looking  at  the  far, 
calm  sea. 

"  Beatrice,"  said  Mrs.  Gervoise,  "  I  can  scarcely  believe  in 
my  happiness.     Do  you  think  it  will  last?" 

"  No,  darling.  I  am  sure  it  will  not ;  but  let  us  enjoy  it 
whilst  we  have  it." 

"It  is  so  very  sweet  to  be  in  a  new  place,"  resumed  Mrs. 
Gervoise,  sighing.  "  I  never  feel  at  home  in  that  old  Camoosie, 
where  every  one  seems  to  be  watching  you.  I  wish  we  could  be 
away  somewhere,  Beatrice." 

Beatrice  was  thinking :  "  He  will  not  come  ;  but  the  place 
is  small,  we  cannot  help  meeting.  It  will  be  a  sweet  sort  of  tor- 
ment ;  a  bitter  joy."  She  looked  at  the  deep,  dark  blue  sea,  and 
at  the  paler  sky  with  stars  scattered  over  it.  She  felt  above  life 
just  then,  above  its  trials  and  its  sorrows.  It  seemed  little  to 
suffer  and  endure  at  that  moment ;  life  was  so  short,  eternity  so 
full  and  so  blissful. 

Low  down  in  the  valley,  by  the  little  river,  rose  a  red  brick 
house,  whence  the  blue  smoke  was  curling  among  green  trees. 
It  was  his,  she  was  sure  ;  in  that  humble  and  narrow  dwelling, 
less  stately  than  the  lodge  of  her  gamekeeper,  he  toiled  and 
struggled  without  hope.  Oh,  to  be  happy  and  free,  there, 
between  her  mother  and  that  dear,  true  Gilbert,  the  heart  of  her 
heart !  What  are  presentiments  ?  What  language  is  it  that 
speaks  so  plainly  to  the  heart,  and  tells  it,  this  bliss  you  shall 
never  reach,  this  happiness  you  must  forego,  they  are  not,  and 
can  never  be  for  you !  Something  thus  spoke  to  Beatrice  as  she 
looked  out  at  the  deepening  night.  No ;  she  felt  it,  happiness 
was  not  for  her.  She  was  young  and  rich  ;  she  had  health,  and 
a  bright,  hopeful  temper,  and  every  thing  which  could  bless  her 
to  the  vulgar  eye,  and  yet  she  was  a  captive,  and  must  never 
hope  for  liberty.  Never  whilst  her  mother  lived,  would  Beatrice 
be  free. 

"  Beatrice,  what  is  it?" 

Mrs.  Gervoise  spoke  in  a  tone  of  surprise,  and  looked  at  her 
daughter — for  Beatrice,  leaving  her  place  by  the  window,  had 
come  and  sat  by  her  mother,  and  tenderly  clasping  her  arms 
around  her,  had  laid  her  head  on  Mrs.  Gervoise's  shoulder. 

"What  is  it,  my  dear?"  asked  Mrs.  Gervoise  again. 

Beatrice  kissed  her  cheek. 

"  Live  long — live  long,"  she  said  ;  "  do  not  die  and  leave  me, 
my  darling." 


300  BEATEICE. 

"  My  dear,  do  you  think  I  am  worse?"  uneasily  asked  Mrs. 
Gervoise. 

"  ;N"o — no.  It  was  a  foolisli  thought  of  mine,  but  it  saddened 
me.  My  darling,  I  hope  we  may  never  part,  not  even  in  death ; 
I  hope  there  may  never  be  a  day  between  us." 

Mrs.  Gervoise  gave  her  a  sUent  caress,  but  she  did  not  know 
what  Beatrice  felt.  Beatrice  felt  that  her  mother  was  the  chain, 
and  that  the  chain  must  never  be  broken ;  and  that  she  must 
never  feel  as  that  mother  lay  dead  before  her,  "  I  am  free  now." 
Another  freedom  there  was,  the  death  of  the  tyrant ;  but  Bea- 
trice was  proud,  and  scorned  to  think  of  that. 

"  I  suppose  that  is  Mr.  Gervoise  coming  back,"  said  Mrs. 
Gervoise,  as  a  sound  of  steps  and  voices  neared  the  door  of  the 
wide  room. 

Beatrice's  heart  beat.  She  had  recognized  the  quiet  tones  of 
Gilbert's  voice.  He  was  coming,  then  ;  coming  after  all !  The 
door  opened ;  a  servant  brought  in  two  wax  lights  in  a  wonderful 
pair  of  old  brass  candlesticks,  delicately  engraved  with  mediaeval 
trefoils  and  thistles.  Behind,  in  the  half  gloom  of  the  room, 
stood  Mr.  Gervoise,  and  behind  his  flushed  face  appeared  the 
pale  and  noble  features  of  his  elder  son. 

"  My  dear  Gilbert,  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you,"  said  Mrs. 
Gervoise,  half  rising. 

Beatrice  said  nothing,  but  Mr.  Gervoise,  who  stood  behind 
his  wife's  chair,  watched  her  face.  He  saw  her  flushed  cheeks, 
her  beaming  eyes,  and  the  smile  that  trembled  on  her  red  lips, 
and  he  felt  that  the  bait  was  good  and  strong.  Less  signs  of 
emotion  appeared  in  Gilbert.  He  was  more  master  of  himself 
than  poor  Beatrice,  and  he  was  of  a  more  denying  nature  too. 
What  his  heart  felt  his  face  seldom  revealed ;  and  it  may  be  that 
now  the  sense  of  a  sad  and  austere  future  subdued  the  present 
joy.  Mr.  Gervoise  watched  him  with  growing  displeasure. 
Gilbert  was  tame  and  cold,  and  would  undo  every  thing ;  but 
there  are  temptations  which  even  the  cold  cannot  well  resist,  and 
Mr.  Gervoise  knew  it  well. 

"  My  dear,"  he  said  to  his  wife,  with  the  affectionate  polite- 
ness he  could  put  on  so  easily,  "  I  have  a  note  to  write — will 
you  excuse  me?" 

He  withdrew,  to  Beatrice's  great  relief;  an  evil  influence 
seemed  to  fill  the  room  whilst  he  was  by.  Her  husband  being 
gone,  Mrs.  Gervoise  became  talkative. 

"  Gilbert,  do  come  and  sit  by  me  and  Beatrice,"  she  said, 
*'  and  do  tell  me  how  you  like  Verville  ?    Is  it  pretty  ?  are  there 


BEATRICE.  301 

nice  walks?  will  you  take  us  about?  Doctor  Rogerson  ordered 
me  French  sea-air — do  you  think  it  good  for  me  ?  I  already  feel 
so  much  better  ! " 

"  I  think  it  very  good  for  you,"  replied  Gilbert ;  "  and  that 
you  wiU  like  Verville  I  scarcely  doubt.  It  is  quiet,  and  pretty, 
and  green,  and  very  different  from  Carnoosie." 

"  I  like  Carnoosie,"  a  little  jealously  said  Beatrice,  and  Gil- 
bert smiled,  for  she  spoke  in  the  very  tone  of  the  little  Beatrice 
whom  he  remembered  so  well. 

"  I  am  sure  Verville  is  a  much  pleasanter  place,"  almost  pet- 
tishly said  Mrs.  Gervoise ;  "I  wonder  you  do  not  see  it,  Bea- 
trice." 

Beatrice  did  not  answer  ;  she  spoke  no  more,  and  the  conver- 
sation was  carried  on  between  Gilbert  and  her  mother.  She 
questioned  him  with  a  vivacity  very  unusual  in  her,  concerning 
Verville  and  its  scenery,  and  its  people,  and  Gilbert  replied  ;  and 
Beatrice  shading  her  eyes  with  her  hand  as  if  from  the  light  of 
the  wax  candles  in  the  high  brass  candlesticks,  saw  him  through 
her  slender  fingers,  and  fed  on  the  sight  of  his  face  and  the  sound 
of  his  voice.  A  quarter  of  an  hour  had  been  spent  thus,  when 
Mrs.  Gervoise's  maid  tapped  at  the  door,  and  whispered  a  mes- 
sage to  her  mistress.  Mrs.  Gervoise  looked  puzzled  and  sur- 
prised, and  rose  slowly : 

"  Mr.  Gervoise  wants  me  for  a  few  minutes,"  she  said,  "  but 
you  are  not  to  go,  Gilbert,  for  he  will  want  you  too  ;  so  wait  till 
I  come  back." 

Beatrice  half  rose  to  follow  her  mother  out,  then  sank  back 
in  her  chair.  She  knew  what  Mr.  Gervoise  wanted,  he  wanted 
her  to  remain  alone  with  his  son,  and  for  once  Beatrice  would 
not  oppose  him.  And  Gilbert  knew  it  too,  and  a  flush,  which 
might  be  from  pleasure  or  from  resentment,  rose  to  his  cheek  and 
dyed  it,  as  Mrs.  Gervoise  and  her  maid  left  the  room,  and  he  re- 
mained alone  with  Beatrice. 

They  should  have  been  more  than  mere  mortal  if  they  had 
not  tasted  at  least  the  tempting  cup  Mr.  Gervoise  so  unsparingly 
placed  before  them. 

Gilbert  rose  and  took  Mrs.  Gervoise's  vacant  chair,  and  Bea- 
trice, sitting  by  him,  laid  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  and  wept,  and 
sobbed  as  if  her  heart  woijldHbreakr^But  that  storm  of  tears 
born  of  the  joy  of  their  meeting  and  of  theibitterness  of  their  lot, 
did  not  last.  She  sh0ok  away  the  heavy  dew  on  her  cheek  and 
smiled  ;  but  deep  and^sad  was  the  long  look  which  Gilbert,  bend- 
ing over  her,  fastened  on  her  upraised  face. 


302  BEATRICE.     * 

"Beatrice,"  he  said,  "  we  should  never  meet — it  is  too  hard 
to  part  again." 

"  Then  let  us  not  part !  "  impetuously  exclaimed  Beatrice  ; 
"  why  did  you  ever  leave  me,  Gilbert?" 

The  reproachful  look  which  Gilbert  gave  her  was  eloquent 
and  sad.     Beatrice's  heart  smote  her,  and  her  lids  fell. 

"  Forgive  me,"  she  said,  almost  humbly. 

"I  have  nothing  to  forgive,"  replied  Gilbert  very  sadly. 
"  Beatrice,  I  am  not  wise.  There  are  days  and  hours  when  I 
long  for  happiness  and  you  with  insatiable  longing.  "When  the 
hard  fate  which  divides  us  seems  too  hard  to  bear.  But  after 
all,  Beatrice,  mere  happiness  is  no  more  the  end  of  love  than  it 
is  the  end  of  life.  "We  strive  for  it,  oh  !  how  eagerly  and  how 
vainly !  but  it  is  not  the  end.  The  end  of  love  is  to  love,  and 
they  who  seek  for  any  thing  else  in  it  are  surely  most  unwise." 

"Yes,"  said  Beatrice,  looking  up  at  him,  "you  are  right, 
happiness  is  not  the  end." 

But  sad  and  bitter  is  the  philosophy  which  teaches  such  wis- 
dom to  a  man  of  twenty-six,  and  a  girl  of  twenty-one.  As  Gil- 
bert and  Beatrice  sat  thus,  near  and  divided,  without  hope  for  the 
future,  they  could  not  enjoy  the  present.  Mr.  Gervoise  did  not 
know  them,  after  all.  The  bait  was  coarse  and  tame,  and  could 
not  take  with  proud  and  noble  natures.  It  was  not  being  side 
by  side,  it  was  not  a  fond  look  or  the  pressure  of  a  hand,  that 
could  deepen  the  love  of  Gilbert  and  Beatrice.  Something  was 
wanted,  something  which  Mr.  Gervoise  could  not  give  :  the 
treasure  of  Hope  which  remained  in  the  box  of  Pandora  when  all 
the  evils  which  covered  this  ill-fated  earth  had  escaped  from  its 
depths. 

Gilbert,  calm  though  he  looked,  felt  most  the  sting  of  that 
hopelessness,  for  he  was  a  man ;  he  had  a  hard  life :  he  was 
morning,  noon,  and  night  at  the  call  of  the  sick  and  the  needy,  a 
true  village  doctor,  whom  no  one  spared,  and  his  hearth  was 
solitary,  and  must  remain  so,  for  never,  he  felt — ^never  must  an- 
other woman  besides  Beatrice  sit  there.  He  piqued  himself  on 
no  heroic  constancy,  on  no  ideal  of  passion,  but  there  was  only 
one  woman  in  his  eyes,  and  that  woman  was  Beatrice  Gordon. 
The  very  strength  of  his  feelings  made  it  too  hard  to  bear  her 
presence.  Mrs.  Gervoise  did  not  return ;  Gilbert  rose  quietly 
and  bade  Beatrice  good  night.  She  did  not  attempt  to  detain 
him,  but  she  looked  hard  at  him  with  a  piteous,  frightened  glance 
which  he  shunned. 

"  I  shall  light  you  down,"  she  said.     She  took  one  of  the 


BEATEIGE.  303 

heavy  brass  candlesticks  and  preceded  him  down  the  oaken  stairs. 
They  met  no  one  ;  the  old  house  was  very  still. 

"  Come  no  farther,"  said  Gilbert,  as  they  reached  the  last 
step. 

Beatrice  put  down  the  light.  They  stood  for  a  while  looking 
at  each  other  silently.  Gilbert  drew  her  toward  him  and  kissed 
her  with  strange,  sorrow'ful  passion  and  ardour.  Then  he  put 
her  away  and  opened  and  closed  the  door  without  a  word. 

Beatrice  sat  down  on  the  steps  of  the  staircase,  and  clasping 
her  hands  between  her  knees,  cried  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 
He  had  not  said  so,  but  she  knew  well  enough  that  he  would 
come  no  more  ;  and,  alas  !  he  did  not,  for  he  could  not,  he  dared 
not. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

"With  keen  regret  Mrs.  Gervoise  had  seen  the  marriage  of 
Beatrice  and  Gilbert  broken  off,  though  but  few  words  had  passed 
between  her  and  her  daughter  on  this  subject.  She  had  hoped 
that  if  the  lovers  met  again  they  would  yield  and  marry.  She 
was  now  bitterly  disappointed  to  find  that  Gilbert  came  no  more 
to  see  them. 

"  I  hope  Gilbert  is  not  ill,"  she  said,  one  morning,  to  her 
husband. 

She  spoke  on  purpose  in  the  presence  of  Beatrice,  who  stood 
with  her  sketch-book  under  her  arm,  ready  to  go  out  and  draw. 

"  I  hope  not,"  replied  Mr.  Gervoise  with  paternal  tenderness. 
"  Shall  we  call  upon  him,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  I  shall  like  it  of  all  things,"  eagerly  replied  Mrs.  Gervoise, 
and  she  looked  at  Beatrice. 

"  You  must  go  without  me,  darling,"  replied  Beatrice,  with 
her  brightest  smile.  "  I  must  sketch  the  cross  this  morning, 
w;hilst  the  sun  shines  upon  it." 

And  as  she  spoke  Beatrice  looked  at  Mr.  Gervoise,  and  her 
'look  said  plainly : 

"  Do  your  best  against  me.  You  can  no  more  bribe  me  by 
the  sweetest  of  temptations,  than  you  could  conquer  me  by  the 
direst  tyranny.     Do  your  best !  " 

She  turned  away,  and  with  a  light  step  crossed  the  wide, 
empty  rooms  of  the  old  chateau.  The  last  ended  with  a  flight  of 
stone  steps,  insecure  and  grass-worn,  down  which  Beatrice  went, 
into  a  green  orchard.  Beyond  this,  again,  she  found  a  long 
stretch  of  pasture,  inclosed  by  high  hedges,  and  skirted  by  trees. 
Still  walking  quickly,  as  if  to  reach  some  eagerly-wished-for 
bourne,  went  Beatrice,  bending  the  high  grass  on  her  way,  and 
leaving  behind  her  a  waving  line  of  path  in  the  lonely  field.  At 
length  she  came  to  a  ruined  gatew^ay,  which  had  once  closed  this 
portion  of  the  demesnes  of  Verville.  Ivy,  delicate  grasses,  corn- 
flowers, sown  there  by  the  wind,  crowned  the  two  crumbling 


BEATRICE.  305 

brick  pillars.  Rude  bars  of  wood,  intended  to  prevent  strange 
cattle  from  entering,  replaced  the  solid  iron  grating  of  old  times. 
Through  this  barrier  Beatrice  slipped  easily,  and  she  stood  in  the 
wild,  lonely  country,  seemingly  miles  away  from  every  human 
dwelling. 

A  painter  alone  could  find  this  spot  congenial  and  lovely. 
Near  the  gate,  the  centre  of  a  group  of  shivering  poplars  and 
aspens,  stood  an  old  stone  cross — rude,  worn,  and  grey.  Every- 
where around  it  spread  fields  of  waving  corn,  meeting  the  blue 
sky  in  a  line  of  tawny  gold.  Through  the  two  pillars  appeared 
the  green  field  Beatrice  had  crossed,  and  beyond  it  the  shining 
sea  ;  of  the  chateau  there  was  no  sign,  the  high  grass  and  a  rise 
of  ground  concealed  it  as  securely  as  a  forest. 

It  was  to  draw  the  cross  that  Beatrice  had  come,  but  she  sat 
down  on  the  last  of  its  three  steps,  and  throwing  her  sketch-book 
on  the  earth,  she  leaned  her  cheek  upon  her  hand  and  looked 
vaguely  before  her.  The  wind  was  high  and  keen,  it  came  from 
the  sea  with  the  rising  tide ;  but  though  it  blew  fiercely  around 
her,  Beatrice  did  not  heed  it.  She  was  in  a  deep  and  troubled 
dream,  far  from  the  lonely  cross,  and  the  waving  corn,  and  the 
ruined  gate.  She  was  wondering  why  years  pass  and  bring  with 
them  such  a  weight  of  care  and  woe,  why  endless  sacrifice  is  the 
law  of  life.  In  vain  she  looked  for  an  issue.  The  fatal  error 
of  her  mother's  second  marriage  condemned  her  to  endless 
misery.  And  it  is  ever  thus ;  the  sins,  the  mistakes,  even  of 
those  whom  we  love,  are  fatal  to  us  as  to  them.  We  are  bound 
to  each  other  by  bonds  indissoluble,  even  though  often  invisible. 
But  perhaps  it  was  part  of  Beatrice's  sorrow  that  she  knew  so 
well  whence  came  the  evil  of  her  lot.  And  whilst  she  sits  thus 
sadly,  feeling  that  she  must  not  even  cross  the  threshold  of  Gilbert's 
dwelling,  her  mother,  sitting  in  Gilbert's  chair,  is  looking  with 
calm  curiosity  around  that  room  which  his  letters  have  so  often 
described  to  Beatrice. 

The  young  doctor's  house  stood  between  the  main  street  of 
Verville  and  its  shining  little  river  ;  shut  in  from  the  dust  of  one 
by  a  garden  of  roses,  and  open  to  the  coolness  of  the  other.  It  was 
a  small  brick  house,  with  white  stone  windows,  and  a  vine-covered 
front.  Tall  trees  grew  around  it,  and  gave  it  their  freshness  and 
their  shade.  He  was  not  within  when  Mr.  Gervoise  and  his  wife 
called,  and  whilst  her  husband  walked  about  the  garden,  Mrs. 
Gervoise  went  in  and  rested.  A  middle-aged  servant,  in  a  clean 
white  cap,  and  short  black  petticoat  and  jacket,  had  shown  her 
into  the  doctor's  best  room.     It  was  long,  and  took  up  the  full 


^ 


306  BEATRICE. 


depth  of  the  house.  Mrs.  Gervoise,  sitting  near  the  old- 
fashioned  fire-place,  could  see  through  the  window-panes  at  the 
farthest  end  the  bright  roses  in  the  sunny  garden,  and  through  the 
open  window  at  the  other  extremity  of  the  room  near  her,  the 
willows,  and  the  little  river  that  washed  the  walls  of  the  build- 
ing. High  trees  gave  to  this  part  of  the  room  a  quiet  green 
light,  full  of  repose.  The  walls  wainscoted  with  young  oak,  the 
dark  and  shining  floor,  the  crimson  cloth  on  the  table,  two  shelves 
covered  with  books,  pleased  Mrs.  Gervoise's  eye,  wearied  with 
the  stateliness  of  Carnoosie. 

"  I  wish  Beatrice  were  here,"  she  thought. 

Ah !  she  little  guessed  how  well  Beatrice  knew  that  room  ; 
not  merely  through  Gilbert's  description  of  it,  but  by  actual 
sight.  She  little  knew  how  often,  when  he  was  out  on  his  rounds, 
Beatrice,  standing  on  the  opposite  bank  of  the  narrow  stream, 
and  hidden  among  the  trees,  had  looked  in  through  the  ever-open 
window.  "  And  who  knows  after  all,"  thought  the  sanguine 
girl,  "  who  knows  that  all  will  not  end  sweetly  and  happily  yet  ?" 
And  then  she  saw  herself  the  happy  wife  of  the  young  doctor. 
She  preferred  that  dream  to  Carnoosie,  for  Carnoosie  was  reality  ; 
it  was  Mr.  Gervoise  and  her  mother — ^her  gaoler  and  the  chain. 
To  think  of  Carnoosie  was  to  think  of  what  must  never  be  ;  but 
that  little  house  of  Gilbert's,  so  like  a  happy  nest,  was  romance, 
and  of  that  she  could  dream.  How  well  she  knew  that  chair 
where  her  mother  now  sat,  that  floor  which  her  feet  had  never 
trod,  that  quiet  nook  over  which  the  green  shade  of  young  trees 
ever  fell.  "  I  should  sit  and  work  there,"  thought  Beatrice, 
"  and  look  out  at  the  river,  green  with  the  trees  above  it,  and 
watch  the  trout  on  the  bed  of  pebble  and  sand,  and  then  when 
the  garden-bell  rang,  and  the  watch-dog  barked,  I  should  run  out 
to  meet  him,  and  get  a  kiss  for  my  pains,  and  it  would  be  a 
happy  life ! " 

Who  doubts  it,  Beatrice  ?  It  would  be  Eden  upon  earth — 
but  oh,  Beatrice !  do  not  think  that  even  that  pure  happiness 
should  not  be  bought  at  some  heavy  price.  You  have  tasted 
much  sorrow  in  your  short  life,  and  you  think  that  happiness  is 
a  free  gift,  and  you  do  not  know  how  dear  is  its  cost  to  the  most 
favoured. 

"  I  am  sure  Beatrice  would  like  this  room,"  pursued  Mrs. 
Gervoise  ;  and,  as  the  door  opened  as  she  came  to  this  conclu- 
sion, and  Gilbert  appeared  on  the  threshold,  she  imparted  it  to 
him  in  her  childish  w^. 

Gilbert  had  seen  his  father  in  the  garden,  but,  without  telling 


BEATEICE. 


307 


him  that  Beatrice  had  not  come,  Mr.  Gervoise  had  said  to 
him : 

"  Gilbert,  my  dear  boy,  will  you  go  in,  and  have  a  talk  with 
Mrs.  Gervoise  ?  Do  not  alarm  her,  but  still  let  me  know  what 
you  think  of  her  state  ?  " 

Gilbert  had  obeyed,  and  on  entering  the  room,'  given  it  a 
quick  look,  hoping  to  find  Beatrice  there ;  but  Mrs.  Gervoise 
was  alone,  and  by  her  first  words  she  had  dispelled  the  vague 
hope  he  still  felt  of  his  dear  mistress's  presence. 

"  My  dear  Gilbert,  how  Beatrice  would  like  this  room,"  said 
Mrs.  Gervoise,  half-rising,  "  especially  this  end  near  the  river. 
I  remember  she  said  yesterday  that  if  she  had  a  house  here,  she 
would  have  a  window  looking  out  on  the  stream  with  the  trees 
to  make  a  green  shade  near  it." 

Gilbert's  pale  face  flushed.  He  guessed  at  once  that  Beatrice 
must  have  seen  this  his  quiet  retreat,  and  he  remembered  that 
one  afternoon,  when,  overpowered  with  fatigue  and  heat,  he  had 
fallen  asleep  in  his  chair,  he  had  been  wakened  by  a  rustling 
sound  in  the  opposite  trees.  Had  she  stood  and  looked  at  him, 
loving  and  despairing,  as  he  often  wandered  in  the  dark  night 
around  the  old  chateau  lo  catch  her  shadow  on  the  mus- 
lin curtains  of  her  window? 

Forgetful  of  Mrs.  Gervoise's  presence,  he  stood  for  a  mo- 
ment feeling  as  if  every  drop  of  blood  in  his  body  had  rushed  to 
his  heart,  conscious  but  of  one  thought :  "  why  do  we  not  brave 
every  thing,  and  break  through  every  bond  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  you  do  not  think  Beatrice  would  like  it,  after  all," 
suggested  Mrs.  Gervoise,  bewildered  by  his  long  silence. 

Gilbert  roused  himself,  and  smiled  : 

"  I  hope  she  would,"  he  said ;  "  do  you  like  it,  Mrs.  Ger- 
voise?" 

"Oh,  so  much!"  sighed  the  wearied  lady,  sinking  back  in 
her  chair ;  "  it  is  so  different  from  Carnoosie,  and  I  am  so  tired 
of  Carnoosie." 

"  Do  you  not  feel  better  than  when  you  came  to  VerviUe?" 
asked  Gilbert,  sitting  down  by  her  side. 

"  I  like  Verville  better  ;  I  like  the  change,  hut  I  do  not  feel 
belter.     I  suppose  I  never  shall." 

Gilbert  said  a  few  kind  words.  Mrs.  Gervoise,  like  all  other 
invalids,  took  pleasure  in  speaking  of  her  ailings.  He  let  her 
talk,  and  by  the  time  Mr.  Gervoise  came  in,  Gilbert  knew  all  he 
wanted  to  know. 


308     .  BEATRICE. 

"  Gilbert,  do  come  and  explain  this  to  me,"  cried  his  father, 
drawing  him  outside. 

"  Well?"  he  said  with  an  anxious  inquiring  look. 

"  Mrs.  Gervoise  is  very  unwell." 

Mr.  Gervoise  grasped  his  son's  arm,  and  looked  terrified,  as 
well  he  might.     Mrs.  Gervoise  meant  Carnoosie  and  its  comforts. 

"  Is  she  in  danger?"  he  asked  faintly. 

"  I  hope  not — indeed  there  is  no  immediate  danger,  but  she 
is  very  delicate.  She  may  live  years,  and  may  die  almost  sud- 
denly." 

Mr.  Gervoise  grew  sallow.  Indeed  it  required  all  his  strength 
of  will — and  he  had  a  will  of  iron — to  repress  the  horror  and 
dismay  with  which  he  heard  Gilbert.  He  remained  silent  for  a 
while,  thinking  and  planning  ;  at  length  he  said  : 

"  My  dear  boy,  I  am,  I  need  not  say,  shocked  and  grieved. 
My  old  age  I  see  is  destined  to  be  desolate.  Ah  !  Gilbert,  why 
did  you  not  marry  Beatrice  ?  " 

His  voice  was  full  of  paternal  pathos. 

"  Why?"  echoed  Gilbert,  "  surely  you  know  why?" 

He  spoke  with  a  sorrowful  gravity,  not  free  from  reproach. 

"What  did  I  want?"  pursued  Mr.  Gervoise,  mildly — "the 
few  thousands  owing  to  me,  but  which  delicacy  and  pride  for- 
bade me  to  ask  from  Beatrice,  and  a  home  in  Carnoosie.  Then 
my  old  age  would  have  been  gladdened.  And  now  Beatrice  will 
marry  some  one  else,  and  it  is  all  over,  and  I  shall  live  and  die 
a  solitary  old  man." 

" Mrs.  Gervoise  may  live  years,"  said  Gilbert ;  "all  she 
needs  is  a  quiet  and  a  happy  life." 

"  Just  so — I  do  my  best." 

"  Even  a  slight  annoyance  must  be  most  injurious  to  her," 
pursued  Gilbert. 

His  father  heard  him  with  mistrust,  but  replied  eagerly : 

"  Oh,  of  course !  I  must  tell  Beatrice.  She  is  peculiar, 
you  know.  You  are  aware  there  was  insanity  in  the  Carnoosie 
family." 

Gilbert  looked  his  father  full  in  the  face. 

Mr.  Gervoise  calmly  pursued  : 

"  I  hope  and  trust  that  Beatrice  has  escaped  the  taint,  that 
she  is  only  flighty  as  girls  often  are.  Ah !  my  dear  boy,  why 
did  you  not  heed  me  ?  I  sometimes  think  this  disappointment 
has  been  too  much  for  her." 

Gilbert  smiled  drearily  to  hear  the  author  of  that  disappoint- 
ment deplore  it. 


BEATRICE.  309 

"  If  you  could  reconsider  your  resolve,"  resumed  Mr.  Ger- 
voise  thoughtfully,  "  it  would  really  be  a  good  thing,  Gilbert." 

"  Will  you  reconsider  your  terms?"  asked  Gilbert,  his  cheek 
flushing  with  sudden  emotion. 

"  My  dear  boy,  consider.  My  claims  are  so  simple  and  so 
just." 

"  Let  us  say  no  more,"  replied  Gilbert. 

"  My  dear  boy,  you  really  are  too  hasty.  This  is  a  most 
serious  matter — come  and  see  us " 

"  Never,"  again  interrupted  Gilbert  with  some  force  ;  "  I  wiU 
see  Beatrice  as  her  fnture  husband,  or  not  at  all." 

*'  That  is  just  it — I  do  want  you  to  see  her  as  her  future  hus- 
band." 

"  And  I  will  marry  her  without  terms,  or  I  will  not  marry 
her,"  continued  his  son.  "  You  know  very  well,"  he  added  with 
sad  though  calm  reproach,  "  that  if  her  mother  were  dead  I 
could  marry  her  at  once." 

"  I  know  that  Beatrice  is  an  ungrateful  child,  but  I  do  not 
think  you  would  abet  her  ingratitude." 

"  Pray  let  us  drop  the  subject,"  said  Gilbert  very  sadly,  "  we 
cannot  agree." 

"We  might  agree  but  for  that  imprudent  abruptness  of 
yours.  My  dear  boy,  you  will  never  be  a  man  of  business ; 
why,  surely  you  ought  to  see  how  much  I  wish  to  please  you. 
There  may  be  a  way  to  manage.  I  should  like  to  purchase  the 
chateau  of  Yerville  from  you ;  Mrs.  Gervoise  might  like  to  re- 
main here.  French  air  agrees  with  her,  as  English  air  agrees 
with  me — in  short,  my  dear  boy,  we  might  compromise." 

Mr.  Gervoise  looked  most  amiably  at  his  son  through  his 
glasses,  but  if  Gilbert  understood  him  he  did  not  seem  to  do  so. 
Perhaps  mistrust  had  entered  his  heart  since  they  had  had 
another  conversation  in  Carnoosie,  and  could  not  leave  it  so 
readily.  It  suited  Mr.  Gervoise,  however,  to  consider  this  mat- 
ter settled. 

'^  My  dear  boy,"  he  said,  giving  Gilbert's  hand  an  affection- 
ate squeeze,  "  I  am  glad  we  have  had  this  little  confidential  con- 
versation. We  can  now  go  straight  on,  and  I  think  I  shall  go 
and  look  for  dear  Mrs.  Gervoise." 

Dear  Mrs.  Gervoise,  tired  with  waiting,  had  fallen  asleep  in 
her  chair.  Her  husband  wakened  her  with  a  tenderness  which 
showed  how  much  he  valued  her  system. 

Gilbert  saw  them  to  the  garden  gate,  and  felt  sad  and  lone 
when  they  were  gone.  It  was  hard,  it  was  very  hard,  this  in- 
cessant strife  ;  and  alas  !  it  was  very  useless. 


CHAPTER  XXXYin. 

Gilbert  was  in  tis  first  sleep  that  night  when  a  loud  ring  at 
his  garden-gate  roused  him.  He  opened  his  window,  asked  in 
French  who  was  there,  and  Beatrice's  voice  answered  in  English. 

"  It  is  I,  Gilbert,  come  quickly — my  mother  is  ill." 

"  Are  you  alone,  Beatrice  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  would  wait  for  no  one." 

"  I  shall  be  with  you  in  five  minutes." 

In  less  time  than  he  said  Gilbert  was  dressed  and  by  her 
side.  He  took  her  arm,  and,  as  they  walked  quickly  to  the 
chateau,  he  said, 

"  Do  not  be  alarmed.  These  night  attacks  are  nothing  in 
her  complaint ! " 

"  They  are  not  dangerous?" 

"  Not  at  all.     But  why  did  not  my  father  come  for  me? " 

''  He  went  ofi*  to  England  after  dinner." 

"  Gilbert  wondered  at  this  abrupt  departure,  little  suspecting 
he  had  helped  to  hasten  it. 

Mr.  Gervoise  found  his  son  and  step-daughter  a  great  deal 
too  cool,  and  he  wanted  to  forward  their  happiness.  They  both 
defied  him,  and  he  was  bent  on  conquering  them  both.  If  they 
braved  him  with  the  same  sweet  yet  provoking  smile,  they  ac- 
knowledged their  pain  by  the  same  symptoms.  In  either  there 
were  tokens  of  fever  and  unrest  which  spoke  of  minds  ill  at 
ease,  but  most  in  Beatrice.  Gilbert  was  the  stronger  of  the  two, 
and  for  Gilbert  should  his  trap  be  set.  The  young  man  would 
not  come  near  Beatrice  ;  the  candle  was  too  bright  and  too  visi- 
ble for  this  wise  moth,  it  must  be  put  in  the  shade  and  another 
lure  held  forth.  Mr.  Gervoise  had  business  in  England,  and 
annoyance  made  Mrs.  Gervoise  ill.  He  kindly  informed  her 
that  he  did  not  mean  to  remain  in  Carnoosie,  and,  having  thus  pre- 
pared her  for  requiring  Gilbert's  professional  assistance,  he  hast- 
ily left  Verville,  trusting  Gilbert  and  Beatrice  to  the  unavoidable 
temptation  of  their  own  hearts. 


BEATRICE.  311 

Mr.  Gervoise  would  have  been  alarmed  if  he  could  have 
suspected  how  strong  a  dose  he  had  administered  to  his  delicate 
wife.  Gilbert  was  shocked  with  her  appearance  when  he  en- 
tered her  room ;  and  though  he  assured  Beatrice  there  was  no 
danger,  yet  when  she  said,  "You  will  not  go  away  to-night?" 
he  replied,  "  Certainly  not,"  with  an  emphasis  that  struck  her. 

They  watched  together  that  night.  Gilbert  sat  at  the  foot 
of  Mrs.  Gervoise's  large  square  bed,  Beatrice  at  the  head.  The 
room  was  wide,  and,  save  when  the  sick  lady  moaned  with  pain 
and  fever,  very  still.  A  night-lamp  burned  with  feeble  light 
near  them,  and  left  all  else  in  gloom.  The  pillow  on  which 
rested  Mrs.  Gervoise's  flushed  face  and  the  white  coverlet  gave 
gleams  of  light  in  the  dark  room  ;  but  heavy  shadows  lingered 
around  the  long  sombre  curtains,  and  Gilbert  could  scarcely  see 
Beatrice.  She  sat  back  in  her  chair,  one  hand  buried  in  her 
heavy  curls,  the  other  resting  on  her  mother's  bed.  But  what 
the  young  doctor  could  not  see  he  could  guess.  He  knew  that 
bright  face,  lit  up  by  radiant  eyes,  so  well.  The  graceful  turn 
of  the  young  white  neck,  the  drooping  shoulders ;  all  these  he 
knew,  and  he  was  twenty-six,  and  he  had  but  to  speak,  and 
Beatrice,  fond  and  happy,  would  gladly  be  his. 

Seriously  Gilbert  questioned  his  own  wisdom.  Was  it  not 
dreadful  folly  to  cast  away  a  happiness  so  true,  so  pure,  and  so 
deep  ?  What  fantastic  honour  or  false  duty  kept  him  back  ?  Car- 
noosie  was  wide — could  not  one  of  its  many  rooms  shelter  him 
and  Beatrice  ?  What  more  did  they  ask  but  to  be  blest  with  one 
another  and  forget  all  else?  In  those  noble  grounds,  covered 
with  ancient  trees,  there  were  many  sweet  retreats  for  happy 
lovers  ;  true  bowers  of  delight  where  none  need  ever  intrude. 

But  even  as  the  knight  roused  himself  from  the  dangerous 
charms  of  the  gardens  of  Armida,  so  did  Gilbert  waken  with  a 
sigh  from  his  sweet  vision.  No,  Carnoosie  was  not  wide  enough 
to  hold  him  and  his  father  on  those  terms  ;  and  beautiful  though 
its  shady  bowers  might  be,  fond  and  loving  as  Beatrice  was, 
Gilbert  felt,  with  all  the  pride  of  manhood,  and  all  the  pride  of 
love,  that  he  was  born  for  another  destiny. 

But  he  could  not  help  remembering  the  conversation  he  had 
had  with  his  father  that  morning,  and,  remembering  it,  he  won- 
dered if  there  were  no  other  issue.  Ah  !  what  a  dream  came  be- 
fore him,  what  a  temptation  rushed  to  Gilbert's  heart ! 

"  Beatrice,"  he  said  softly. 

Mrs.  Gervoise  was  sleeping.  Beatrice  rose  and  went  to 
Gilbert,  who  led  her  to  the  open  window. 


312  BEATRICE. 

"  Beatrice,"  he  said,  "  if  it  were  possible — would  you  ?  " 

She  knew  his  meaning,  and  wondered  at  the  question. 

"  Yes,  Gilbert,"  she  replied  honestly,  "  you  know  I  would." 

He  could  not  help  clasping  her  hand  in  both  his  with  an 
ardent  pressure.  Then  memory,  conscience,  and  pride  came 
back,  and  he  dropped  Beatrice's  slender  fingers  with  a  sigh. 

"  Ah  !  but  it  is  not  possible,"  he  exclaimed  in  a  low  voice  ; 
"  never  mind  me  when  I  speak  so." 

Beatrice  was  too  generous  to  question  him,  and  silently  walk- 
ed back  to  her  mother's  bed. 

The  next  day  Mrs.  Gervoise  was  much  better,  but  Gilbert, 
though  he  returned  to  his  own  house,  did  not  cease  to  call  at  the 
chateau.  He  could  not,  and  perhaps  he  would  not.  There  are 
cups  of  happiness  which  one  cannot  take  and  dash  to  the  earth 
untasted. 

Thus  they  met  once  more,  and  Mr.  Gervoise*s  scheme  was 
accomplished.  Beatrice  knew  what  his  purpose  was,  yet  for 
once  she  would  not  resent  it.  He  wanted  to  try  if  his  absence 
could  not  effect  what  his  presence  had  impeded.  She  knew  he 
would  fail,  that  Gilbert  was  unconquerable,  and  yet  it  was  very 
sweet  to  be  thus  left  with  him,  far  from  the  evil  eye  that  tainted 
every  joy  it  looked  upon.  Much  that  Mr.  Gervoise  had  ex- 
pected came  to  pass.  Gilbert  came  at  first  because  his  step- 
mother was  ill,  then  because  he  could  not  do  without  seeing 
Beatrice.  Once  more  they  met  with  the  freedom  and  the 
liberty  of  happy  lovers.  They  shut  out  from  their  view  the 
bitter  knowledge  that  marriage  was  either  forbidden  or  remote  ; 
they  felt  but  the  charm  of  the  present  time,  and  yielded  freely  to 
the  temptation  set  before  them. 

Every  morning  Gilbert  came  to  see  Mrs.  Gervoise.  Some- 
times he  found  her  walking  below  in  the  green  pasture,  which 
was  the  garden  of  Verville,  and  unless  when  pressed  for  time  he 
lingered  with  her  and  Beatrice.  She  never  asked  him  to  stay, 
but  she  used  unsparingly  the  hundred  arts  of  a  fond  and  loved 
mistress  to  detain  him.  Gilbert  saw  and  felt  it  and  jdelded  ;  for 
of  all  the  chains  that  bound  him  Beatrice's  love  was  the  sweetest 
and  the  strongest.  His  youth  had  been  lone,  and  sad,  and 
unloved,  and  now  this  noble  young  creature  gave  him  her 
love  with  prodigal  liberality.  She  knew  that  he  would  not 
marry  her,  because  he  could  not  in  honour,  and  she  was  neither 
hurt  nor  offended  at  the  rejection.  With  a  nobleness  akin  to  his 
own  she  fortified  him  in  his  resistance,  and,  with  the  unselfish 
tenderness  of  a  woman,  she  gave  him  freely,  not  caring  for  hope, 


BEATEICE.  313 

the  boon  others  would  have  been  so  eager  to  win.  There  was  a 
magnanimity  in  her  constancy  which  stirred  the  depth  of  Gil- 
bert's heart. 

"  You  have  a  royal  nature,  Beatrice  Gordon,"  he  once  said 
to  her  ;  "  you  are  a  true  queen,  every  inch  of  you." 

Beatrice  laughed,  and  tried  to  seem  careless,  but  her  cheek 
flushed,  for  she  knew  his  meaning. 

Every  evening  after  dinner  Gilbert  joined  the  ladies,  and  sat 
or  walked  with  them  until  night  set  in  and  it  was  time  to  part. 
These  were  happy  evenings  ;  but  once  before  had  either  known 
such. 

"This  is  too  pleasant  a  time  to  last,"  thought  Beatrice,' as 
she  looked  at  or  listened  to  him,  "  I  know  ifwiU  not.  I  am  now 
as  I  often  am  in  my  dreams.  I  then  wander  in  delightful  places, 
real  gardens  of  the  Hesperidee,  where  the  golden  apples  shine, 
and  I  feel  it  is  delicious,  but  all  the  time  I  know  I  am  dreaming. 
Even  so  is  this  life.  It  is  delightful,  and  Mr.  Gervoise  is  a  won- 
derful enchanter,  and  knows  the  might  of  his  spells  ;  but  for  all 
that  it  is  a  dream,  and  it  were  wrong  in  us  to  forget  it.  I  won- 
der if  he  ever  does  ?  " 

She  did  not  dare  to  question  him,  but  she  knew  how  far 
Gilbert  forgot  it  one  evening. 

Mrs.  Gervoise  had  taken  a  long  walk  for  her.  She  had 
crossed  the  valley,  and  rested  in  Gilbert's  house.  Beatrice  had 
entered  it  too,  not  for  the  first  time,  yet  her  presence  there, 
giving  his  little  dwelling  the  charm  of  home,  had  sent  all  Gil- 
bert's prudence  and  wisdom  to  the  winds.  He  listened  to  her 
playing  on  his  piano ;  he  heard  her  footstep  on  the  floor ;  he 
watched  her  light  and  graceful  motions,  as  she  made  her  wearied 
mother  a  cup  of  tea,  and  again  he  remembered  the  broad  hints 
which  his  father  had  dropped. 

"  Mamma  is  rested — we  can  go  on  the  downs,"  said  Beatrice, 
coming  up  to  where  he  stood. 

"Go!  why  go?" 

She  gave  him  a  surprised  look.  He  continued,  in  a  tone  of 
suppressed  passion : 

"  I  cannot  bear  to  see  you  go  out  of  this  house,  Beatrice." 

Beatrice,  troubled  to  the  very  heart,  and  not  knowing  what 
to  say,  turned  to  the  window  ;   Gilbert  followed  her. 

"  You  know  my  meaning,  Beatrice.  I  cannot  bear  it — ^you 
must  either  be  my  wife,  or  we  must  part  again  ! " 

His  voice  rose  ;  Beatrice  raised  her  forefinger,  for  her  mothei: 
might  hear,  and  her  mother  must  not  be  troubled.  He  silently 
14 


314  BEATRICE. 

walked  away  to  Mrs.  Gervoise,  and  they  all  three  left  the  house, 
and  made  their  way  to  the  downs.  Pleasant  sights  and  sounds 
met  them  in  the  village.  Women  were  spinning  at  their  doors, 
men  were  watering  cattle  in  the  pond,  where  geese  and  ducks 
were  cackling.  Children  shouted  in  wild  glee,  and  the  little 
river  flowed  on,  and  the  mill  wheels  turned  with  a  clacking 
sound,  and  everywhere  Gilbert  saw  poor  homes,  where  hard- 
working men  could  possess  in  peace  the  girls  they  had  loved  and 
chosen.  Once  or  twice  he  looked  at  Beatrice,  but  her  eyes  sank, 
and  would  not  meet  his. 

A  lane,  winding  between  two  hawthorn  hedges,  led  them  to 
the  wide  and  fertile  plain  which  extended  on  the  summit  of  the 
cliffs.  The  evening  was  very  calm,  the  tide  was  going  out,  and 
a  long  line  of  shore  skirted  the  receding  sea.  Mrs.  Gervoise 
was  tired  again,  and  she  sat  down  on  the  last  step  of  a  wooden 
cross  that  rose  alone  in  the  desert  of  the  cliffs,  a  memorial  and  a 
sign  of  the  great  mystery  of  our  redemption.  Beatrice  stayed 
awhile  near  her  ;  then,  starting  to  her  feet,  she  cried : 

"  I  must  look  for  a  bee  orchis,"  and  she  wandered  away 
until  a  rise  of  ground  hid  her  from  her  mother's  sight ;  she  then 
slided  down  on  the  grass,  and  hiding  her  face  in  her  lap,  wept 
long  and  desperately. 

"  Beatrice,"  said  Gilbert's  voice. 

She  looked  up.  He  was  sitting  by  her,  looking  at  her  with  a 
countenance  full  of  grief,  but  seeming  unable  to  speak. 

"Is  it  I  who  have  grieved  you  so ? "  he  asked  at  length. 

"  No.  You  only  spoke  as  you  felt,  and  as  I  feel  ten  times 
a-day.     Gilbert,  we  have  been  mad — we  must  part !  " 

"  Part ! "  he  repeated,  with  involuntary  bitterness  ;  "  how 
readily  you  come  to  that  conclusion,  Beatrice  !  " 

"What  am  I  to  do?" 

"  What,  indeed !  Beatrice,  it  is  hard,  and  all  the  harder  that 
it  would  be  so  easy.  We  are  both  our  own  masters.  Let  us 
but  say  the  word,  and  in  a  few  days  the  mayor  will  marry  us  in 
that  square  house  below,  Beatrice,  and  the  priest  give  us  a  bless- 
ing in  the  little  church,  of  which  it  seems  as  if  I  could  reach  the 
spire  with  my  hand." 

"  Yes,  I  know  all  that,  Gilbert ;  but  I  cannot  leave  my  poor 
darling.  I  could  live  with  Mr.  Gervoise,  ay,  and  have  my  way 
too,  for  I  believe  he  fears  me  ;  but  my  mother  was  born  to  be 
crushed  and  conquered,  and  I  must  be  by  to  save  her.^' 

Gilbert  rose  and  walked  about  agitatedly. 

*'  Beatrice,"  he  said,  when  he  came  back,  "  this  must  cease. 


BEATEICE.  315 

We  are  but  mortals,  and  we  act  as  if  we  were  angels — more 
than  angels,  beyond  the  reach  of  temptation.  If  we  could  hope, 
Beatrice,  I  should  not  repine.  Twenty  years  of  bondage  in  the 
house  of  Laban,  would  not  seem  hard  to  have  you  at  last.  But 
as  it  is — oh  !  Beatrice,  it  is  all  Leah  and  no  Rachel,  bitter  ser- 
vitude and  no  hope  of  liberty !  Oh !  my  darling,  we  must 
part ! " 

His  voice  of  sorrow  smote  Beatrice's  very  heart.  She 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands  ;  when  she  looked  up  again  it  was 
bathed  in  tears. 

"  Part ! "  she  said—"  part ! " 

"  Beatrice,"  he  cried,  taking  her  hands  in  his  and  pressing 
them  fervently,  "  there  is  another  alternative,  but  I  dare  not  pro- 
pose it.  Beatrice,  my  father  will  let  me  have  both  your  mother 
and  you  here  in  Verville." 

"  Will  he  ?  "  cried  Beatrice,  with  sudden  joy. 

"  Yes,  Beatrice  ;  but  can  you  leave  Camoosie  ?  " 

Beatrice  blushed,  but  she  answered — 

"Why  not?" 

"Why  not!"  he  echoed;  <'oh!  Beatrice,  think  of  the 
change." 

Beatrice  smiled. 

"  Beatrice,"  he  said,  fervently,  "to  my  dying  day  I  will 
bless  you  for  this  ;  for  I  must  take  you  at  your  word,  Beatrice. 
I  cannot  do  without  you  any  longer — I  cannot !  " 

He  sp'oke  with  mingled  passion  and  longing,  and  he.longed 
for  her  indeed.  The  thirst  and  the  fever  of  love  had  entered  his 
very  heart,  and  made  him,  if  not  forget  all  else,  at  least  forget 
much  that  he  should  have  remembered. 

"  Have  I  your  promise  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  you  have  it." 

"  Oh !  Beatrice,  how  can  I  take  you  at  your  word?  You  do 
not  question  me — you  ask  to  know  nothing." 

"  No,  I  would  rather  know  nothing.  Let  me  shut  my  eyes, 
Gilbert!" 

She  stood  by  his  side,  her  arm  within  his,  a  wife's  trusting 
tenderness  in  her  whole  bearing.  Gilbert  looked  down  at  heir 
and  felt  supremely  blessed. 

"  Are  you  sure  you  like  Verville?"  he  asked.  "  What  will 
you  change  in  the  house  ?  " 

"  Nothing.     It  is  yours,  and  therefore  perfect  I " 

"  Ay  I  Beatrice,"   he   replied,  smiling ;    "  but  yet  change 


316  BEATEICE. 

something,  something  to  please  me,  Beatrice,  something  of  which 
I  can  say  '  It  was  Beatrice  would  have  it  so  ! ' " 

With  a  smile,  Beatrice  looked  down  at  the  young  doctor's 
house.  Its  brick  chimney  rose  amongst  green  trees,  and  sent 
forth  a  blue  wreath  of  smoke  on  that  verdant  background. 

What  a  small  home  it  was  when  she  remembered  Carnoosie, 
but  what  a  happy  home  they  would  make  it ! 

And  when  Beatrice  thought  of  that  happiness,  never  hoped 
for,  it  seemed  so  unattainable,  and  now  within  her  reach,  her 
heart  melted  within  her.  Ah  !  perfect  happiness  is  too  sweet, 
and  therefore  it  is  not  meant  for  mortals.  There  must  ever  be 
some  alloy,  and  for  the  time  being  there  seemed  none  to  Bea- 
trice. The  enervating  softness  of  the  new  life  of  love  before  her 
stole  into  her  veins.  All  strength,  all  nobleness  of  purpose  for- 
sook her.  She  only  thought  of  Gilbert's  house,  and  in  that  nest 
of  love  seemed  centred  every  delight  she  could  know.  To  move 
about  those  quiet  rooms  between  the  river  and  the  garden,  so 
full  of  roses,  to  see  him  daily,  hourly,  to  be  his  as  he  would  be 
hers  ;  this  was  all  Beatrice  dreamed  of  as  she  now  stood  by  his 
side,  and  looked  down  at  the  house  which  would  soon  call  her 
mistress. 

Gilbert  shared  the  sweet  intoxication,  and  neither  remem- 
bered Mrs.  Gervoise  until  her  voice  called  out  anxiously : 

"  Beatrice,  Beatrice,  where  are  you?" 

"  Here,  darling,"  replied  Beatrice,  springing  forward  to  meet 
her  ;  "  but  I  can  find  you  no  bee  orchis." 

Her  tone  was  light  and  cheerful.  In  vain  Gilbert,  wakening 
for  a  moment  from  his  blissful  dream,  looked  for  tokens  of  re- 
gret or  sorrow,  her  brow  remained  calm,  her  eyes  smiling  and 
sweet.  As  fondly,  as  tenderly  as  ever  she  gave  Mrs.  Gervoise 
her  arm,  and  supported  her  lingering  steps  when  they  turned 
homewards.  And  seeing  her  thus  happy  and  free,  Gilbert  stifled 
every  dawning  scruple,  and  only  felt,  as  he  walked  by  her  side, 
that  Beatrice  was  his  at  last. 

He  stayed  long  with  them  that  evening.  The  sense  of  com- 
ing happiness  made  him  talk  with  a  flow  and  eloquence  which 
bewildered  and  dazzled  Mrs.  Gervoise  ;  they  were  so  unusual  in 
Gilbert,  and  which  moved  Beatrice's  very  heart,  they  told  her 
80  plainly  what  he  felt.  He  could  not  go,  do  what  he  would,  and 
when,  once  or  twice,  he  made  the  attempt,  Mrs.  Gervoise  de- 
tained him  with  an  eager  : 

"  Oh  !  do  stay — ^this  is  so  pleasant — ^we  are  so  happy,  are  we 
not,  Beatrice  ?  " 


BEATRICE.  317 

And  Beatrice  did  not  answer,  save  by  a  soft,  mysterious 
smile  that  played  on  her  rosy  lips,  and  that  was  eloquence  itself 
to  Gilbert. 

At  length  he  rose  ;  the  village  church  was  striking  twelve, 
and,  though  charmed,  Mrs.  Gervoise  was  tired.  Beatrice  let 
him  down-stairs,  as  she  often  did,  as  she  had  done  on  the  firsf 
evening  of  their  arrival  in  Yerville.  When  they  reached  the  last 
step  he  turned  to  her. 

" Beatrice,"  he  said,  " it  is  a  promise?" 

Beatrice,  still  holding  the  light  in  her  right  hand,  laid  her 
left  on  his  shoulder,  and  looked  down  in  his  fkce.  She  did  not 
speak,  but  what  her  lips  did  not  tell  her  whole  aspect  revealed. 
She  was  not  his  mistress  then,  but  his  wife ;  he  was  not  her 
lover,  but  her  dear  lord  and  master.  There  was  a  simplicity,  a 
trust,  and  a  love  in  her  act  and  mien  which  were  stronger  than 
vows,  and  which  Gilbert  felt  very  deeply.  He  turned  to  the 
hand  which  still  rested  on  his  shoulder,  and  pressed  his  lips 
upon  it. 

"  I  am  yours — all  yours,"  she  said,  very  earnestly,  "  and  I 
wish,"  she  added  more  gaily,  "•  I  were  ten  Beatrices  for  your 
sake." 

Gilbert  looked  up  laughing. 

"  What  a  sultan  you  would  make  of  me — ^ten  Beatrices  !  " 

But  Beatrice  knew  her  own  meaning.  Ay  !  she  would  gladly 
have  done  ten  times  more  than  she  meant  to  do  for  his  sake. 
She  had  to  tell  him  to  go  and  to  leave  her ;  he  would  have  lin- 
gered there  talking  to  her  till  morning,  and  when  he  went,  when 
the  gates  closed  upon  him,  and  he  walked  down  the  avenue  and 
crossed  the  moonlit  village,  he  felt  treading  upon  air.  He  could 
not  enter  his  own  dwelling.  Restless  with  happiness,  he  walked 
about  the  silent  street.  In  a  few  days  he  would  have  Beatrice  ; 
she  had  said  it,  and  he  would  keep  her  to  her  word.  No  fond 
excuse,  no  maiden  coyness,  should  win  him  from  his  purpose. 
She  was  his  now,  tenderly  and  sacredly  his,  and  he  would  keep' 
her  fast.  Of  his  father's  consent  he  was  sure,  of  Mrs.  Gervoise's 
no  less — there  was  nothing  now  that  the  long,  and,  as  it  seemed, 
the  vain  obstacle  of  their  own  wills  was  broken ;  there  was  noth- 
ing to  prevent  them  from  being  truly  blessed.  And  so  Doctor 
Gilbert  Gervoise,  as  we  said,  wandered  about  the  sleeping  village, 
till  a  dog  found  him  out,  and  barked,  and  the  dog's  mistress,  a 
decent  widow,  rose  in  alarm,  and  looking  out  of  her  window  was 
all  amazed  to  recognize  the  sober  young  doctor  in  this  night- 
walker.      "  What    can  he   be   thinking  of? "     What,  indeed ! 


318  BEATRICE. 

What  were  you  thinking  of  forty  years  ago,  a  week  before  your 
marriage  day,  Madame  Blondel  ?  Have  you  forgotten  it  now,  is 
it  far  gone  in  the  past  among  your  childish  dreams,  a  puerile 
reminiscence  ?  And  can  you  link  no  such  folly  with  the  calm 
fair-haired  young  man  who  tends  the  physical  welfare  of  Ver- 
ville  ?  Calm !  he  is  not  calm  now.  There  is  a  day  of  fever  for 
every  one  of  us,  and  that  day  has  come  for  him. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

"  Darling,"  said  Bertrice  to  her  mother  when  she  came 
back  to  her  after  leaving  Gilbert,  "  how  will  you  like  to  live  in 
Verville  with  Gilbert  and  me  ?  " 

"  My  dear  !  " 

"  Yes,  darling,  I  am  going  to  marry  him,  that  is  to  say  if  you 
live  mth  us." 

"Mr.  Gervoise  will  never  consent." 

"  Yes,  he  will,"  replied  Beatrice,  with  some  bitterness,  "  Gil- 
bert will  bribe  him." 

It  was  some  time  before  Mrs.  Gervoise  could  realize  the 
change  Gilbert  and  Beatrice  contemplated,  but  at  length  she  un- 
derstood it,  and,  with  tears  of  emotion,  declared  her  willingness 
to  remain  in  Yerville  with  them. 

"  Oh !  Beatrice,"  she  could  not  help  adding,  "  what  a  poor 
match ! " 

"  Poor !  He  is  ten  times  too  good  for  me,  darling.  How  can 
he,  so  perfect,  so  noble,  love  me?  However,  we  must  all  be 
weak,  and  his  weakness  is  that  he  cannot  help  being  fond  of 
me." 

"  Oh !  my  dear,"  sighed  her  mother,  "  be  careful.  Do  not 
see  him  better  than  he  is — it  would  make  you  exacting,  and  per- 
haps imjust." 

Unjust  to  Gilbert !     Beatrice  smiled  at  the  thought. 

"You  do  not  know  him  as  he  is,  darling,"  she  said  compas- 
sionately, "  and  I  do  ;  and  from  childhood  to  manhood  Gilbert 
has  been  all  but  perfect — perfect  in  those  virtues  which  are  the 
test  of  a  man.  No  meanness,  no  ungenerous  emotion,  ever  stained 
his  noble  heart." 

Mrs.  Gervoise  clasped  her  hands. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said,  "  you  are  making  a  god  of  him." 

Beatrice  laughed. 


320  BEATEICE. 

"  Gilbert  is  no  god,"  she  said  gaily ;  "  or  if  he  is,  he  is  a 
heathen  god,  for  he  has  one  signal  weakness,  darling — ^he  is  fond 
of  a  mortal  woman." 

"  But,  my  dear,  you  surely  are  his  equal — ^you  are  young  and 
pretty." 

"  That  is  just  it,"  interrupted  Beatrice,  a  little  sadly,  "  I  am 
afraid  Gilbert  is  fond  of  me  because  I  am,  as  you  say,  young  and 
pretty.  He  is  man,  and  true  man  in  this.  1  do  not  say  he  likes 
me  for  nothing  else ;  but  still,  without  that,  even  Gilbert,  the 
good  and  wise  Gilbert,  would  not  care  for  me." 

"  Well,  but  my  dear,"  objected  her  mother,  "it  is  very  nat- 
ural a  young  man  should  like  youth  and  beauty." 

"  Of  course  it  is  natural,"  pettishly  said  Beatrice  ;  "  but  Gil- 
bert should  not  be  natural — ^he  should  be  supernatural,  you  see. 
Any  one  can  be  natural !  " 

Beatrice  looked  extremely  pretty  as  she  indulged  in  this 
high-flown  paradox.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed,  her  soft  dark  eyes 
shone  like  diamonds,  and  turning  abruptly  round,  she  caught 
sight  of  her  own  face  in  an  old  greenish  mirror  above  the  mantel- 
shelf. Even  in  its  dismal  depths  her  face  shone  with  a  beauty 
and  a  glow  of  which  Beatrice  herself  was  conscious.  Beatrice 
was  not  habitually  vain,  but  a  complacent  thought  now  arose 
within  her.  She  was  young,  and  she  certainly  was  pretty — why 
be  so  exacting  toward  poor  Gilbert  as  to  expect  him  not  to  per- 
ceive either  ?  It  was  folly,  to  say  the  least  of  it.  She  turned  to 
her  mother  with  a  smile,  and  said  : 

"What  nonsense.  I  have  been  talking,  eh,  darling? — and 
how  late  I  am  keeping  you  up !  Ah !  I  am  selfish — very 
selfish!" 

She  kissed  her  mother,  and  bade  her  good  night.  Mrs.  Ger- 
voise  slept  little  that  night ;  Beatrice  slept  soundly  and  deeply ; 
on  wakening  rather  late  she  heard  Gilbert's  voice  below.  He  was 
asking  for  her,  and  on  being  told  that  she  was  not  up  yet,  he  said 
he  would  go  out  and  wait  in  the  orchard.  Beatrice  dressed 
quickly  to  go  down  to  meet  him. 

He  did  not  hear  her  coming  down  the  stone  steps,  or  cross- 
ing toward  him  through  the  dewy  grass  of  the  orchard.  He  was 
not  conscious  of  her  presence  until  she  uttered  a  saucy  "  Well, 
sir,"  when,  turning  round,  he  saw  her  fresh  and  smiling  face. 
Calm,  secure,  and  fond,  as  if  she  had  been  his  for  years,  he  took 
her  arm,  and  leading  her  away  under  the  green  apple  trees,  he 
told  her  his  errand. 


BEATEICE.  321 

"  Will  you  come  and  look  at  my  house  this  morning,  and  see 
it  with  Mrs.  Gervoise,  and  tell  me  what  to  change  ?  " 

"  You  are  very  persistent  on  that  head,"  she  answered  gaily  ; 
"  well,  to  please  you,  mamma  and  I  shall  go  and  look  at  your 
house  after  breakfast,  sir." 

"  Then  I  shall  be  within.  I  must  leave  you  now — I  have  to 
go  round  the  village." 

"  Go,  then,  and  do  your  duty.  I  like  to  thi,nk  you  are  no  idle 
butterfly — ^like  myself — ^but  a  real  worker." 

"Butterflies  have  their  uses  in  creation,"  gravely  replied 
Gilbert. 

"  Their  uses — ^pray  what  uses?  " 

"  They  are  very  beautiful  to  look  at,"  he  answered  looking 
her  full  in  the  face,  "  and  very  pleasant  to  catch  and  possess,"  he 
added,  softly  and  tenderly  laying  his  hand  on  her  arm. 

Beatrice  blushed  rosy  red,  then  looked  sad,  and  half  turned 
her  head  away. 

"  Well,  what  is  it?"  he  quickly  asked. 

"  Oh !  Gilbert,"  she  impetuously  replied,  "  I  must  tell  you 
the  truth.  There  is  a  feeling  which  haunts  and  pursues  me,  and 
which  is  not  pleasant.  You  never  sought  me,  Gilbert,  though  I 
know  you  love  me  ;  and  whatever  pleasure  there  may  be  in  pur- 
suing, I  did  not  give  you.  It  was  I,  Gilbert, — I  who  sought 
you,  and  I  am  not  very  sure  that  if  you  could  in  some  sort  help 
it,  you  would  marry  me.  It  is  always  I,  Gilbert,  who  seem  to 
lead  you  on." 

Gilbert  looked  at  her  in  mute  surprise. 

"  I  suppose  I  am  talking  great  nonsense,"  said  Beatrice,  red- 
dening. 

"  Indeed  you  are,"  he  interrupted,  smiling,  "  wonderful  non- 
sense, my  little  Beatrice — nonsense  which  I  shall  not  even  con- 
tradict, for  it  is  not  worth  while.  Let  us  drop  the  simile  of  the 
butterfly,  since  you  do  not  like  it,  and  listen  to  a  true  story.  For 
a  week,  a  beautiful  bird  perched  on  a  tree  near  my  room  win- 
dow. I  could  have  laid  snares  for  it,  but  I  would  not,  and  dared 
not,  for  I  might  have  killed  it,  or  frightened  it  away,  but  I  left 
my  window  open  in  secret  hope,  and  at  length  it  flew  in,  and  I 
kept  and  caged  it.  Beatrice,  do  you  think  I  love  it  less  because 
I  waited  till  it  came  to  me  in  sweet  trust  and  confidence,  "and  gave 
me  the  liberty  which  I  did  not  like  to  take,  for  what  could  I  give 
in  return?     Some  seed,  and  a  tiny  cage." 

"  And  is  that  a  true  story?  "  gravely  asked  Beatrice. 

"  You  will  see  the  bird  when  you  come,  you  sceptic  ! " 
14* 


322  "  BEATRICE. 

"  But  it  was  not  a  wild  bird  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not,  but  I  suppose  it  had  an  unkind  master,  and 
broke  its  bonds  ;  then,  weary  of  cheerless  freedom,  came  to  me." 

"  It  could  not  do  better,  Gilbert,"  said  Beatrice,  and  her 
voice  shook  a  little  as  she  spoke  ;  "what  kinder  master  than  you 
are  could  it  hope  to  find  ?  " 

Poor  Beatrice  !  She  could  not  go  against  her  own  heart,  and 
she  always  came  back  to  the  language  of  her  fond  adoration. 
Gilbert  would  not  have  been  mortal  if  he  had  not  felt  the  sweet- 
ness of  this  tender  flattery.  Oh !  it  was  very  delightful  to  be 
thus  loved  by  this  bright  young  creature,  who,  willingly  or  not, 
was  always  laying  her  pride  at  his  feet,  and  who,  in  her  subjec- 
tion, ever  preserved  the  wild  grace  of  liberty.  His  eyes  over- 
flowed with  a  passionate  tenderness  Beatrice  had  rarely  read  in 
them — for  Gilbert's  feelings  were  habitually  silent  and  deep,  and 
his  voice  faltered  with  unusual  emotion,  as  he  said : 

"  Do  not  disappoint  me,  Beatrice.  Do  not  forsake  or  put  me 
off  at  the  eleventh  hour  !     I  could  not  bear  it  now  !  " 

"  And  why  should  I  do  that?  "  asked  Beatrice,  surprised. 

"  I  do  not  know ;  but  you  are  not  my  wife  yet,  Beatrice. 
The  window  is  open,  but  the  bird  is  still  on  the  bough.  What 
if  something  should  frighten  it  away  ?  " 

"Ah,  never  from  you,  Gilbert,"  warmly  replied  Beatrice; 
"  if  I  could  be  your  wife  this  morning,  I  would,  not  out  of  love 
for  you,  sir,"  she  added,  smiling,  "  but  because  I  am  weary — oh  ! 
so  weary — of  the  hard  life  of  strife  I  lead  ;  because  I  long,  with 
a  selfish  longing,  to  throw  all  my  cares,  upon  you,  and  to  sleep 
safe  and  warm  in  the  nest  whilst  you  are  out  fighting  and  strug- 
gling for  me — my  master  if  you  will,  but  also  my  bounden  de- 
fender." 

Ah  !  if  they  had  not  been  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  or- 
chard, with  all  the  windows  of  the  chateau  looking  out  upon 
them  like  so  many  watchful  and  spying  eyes,  how  fondly  he 
would  have  clasped  her  to  his  heart,  and  vowed,  with  tender  ca- 
resses and  kisses,  to  be  the  true  master  and  loving  protector  she 
so  longed  for  !  As  it  was,  he  looked  at  her  with  dim  eyes,  and 
the  hand  that  clasped  hers  shook  as  their  fingers  met. 

"  Oh,  Beatrice  !  Beatrice  ! "  he  said,  "  God  gave  you  a  tongue 
that  would  witch  away  any  man's  heart !  " 

"  Because  I  speak  as  I  feel,"  said  Beatrice,  smiling ;  "  and 
now  the  church  clock  is  striking  a  c[uarter  to  nine.  How  much 
longer  are  Docteur  Gervoise's  patients  to  wait  ?  " 

Docteur  Gervoise  looked  impatient.     He  was  full  of  thoughts 


BEATEICE.  323 

of  young  love,  and  disease  and  pain  were  abhorrent  to  him  just 
then  ;  but  a  sigh  chased  the  selfish  feeling  away,  and  returning  to 
the  settled  calmness  of  his  usual  mood,  he  bade  Beatrice  a  good 
morning,  and  was  gone. 

Very  flighty  and  impatient,  and  decidedly  fidgetty  did  his  pa- 
tients find  the  young  doctor  that  morning.  "  There  was  no  get- 
ting any  good  of  him,"  crossly  said  Madame  Blondel,  when  he 
was  gone.  She  was  his  last  patient,  and  with  eager  haste  he 
left  her,  and  walked  back  to  his  own  house.  Beatrice  and  his 
step-mother  were  already  there.  Mrs.  Gervoise  was  sitting  by 
the  window  near  the  river,  and  Beatrice  was  standing  looking  at 
some  of  Gilbert's  books. 

"  "Where  is  the  bird? "  she  asked  at  once. 

"  Come  with  me,  and  I  shall  show  it  to  you." 

She  followed  him  into  a  back  room,  and  there  in  a  cage  she 
saw  a  bird  of  bright  exotic  plumage. 

"Well,  do  you  believe  me  now?" 

"  I  believe  some  lady  gave  you  that  pretty  creature.  That 
it  ever  came  in  to  you,  of  course  I  do  not  believe." 

Gilbert  smiled,  and  looking  round  him,  said  : 

"  This  room  is  too  bare — is  it  not,  Beatrice  ?  " 

"  This  room  is  mine  from  this  hour ! "  authoritatively  said 
Beatrice  ;  "  room  and  bird  I  claim.  Here  I  shall  sit  and  read, 
or  mend  your  stockings.  I  believe  that  is  part  of  a  wife's  duty. 
Here  I  shall  receive  Docteur  Gervoise's  poor  patients,  and  ad- 
minister domestic  medicine  under  the  shape  of  jelly  and  be^f-tea. 
Oh !  you  may  shake  your  head  at  me — I  know  the  life  I  am 
going  to  lead — not  a  particle  of  poetry  shall  there  be  in  it !  " 

"  Oh  !  Beatrice,"  said  Gilbert,  looking  thoughtful,  "  it  seems 
incredible  you  should  give  up  living  in  your  noble  Carnoosie  for  a 
poor  tame  life  with  me.     Are  you  sure  you  will  never  repent  it  ?" 

"Do  you  think  you  will  make  me  repent  it?  No!  Well, 
then,  never  put  such  a  question.  Since  you  would  riot  maiTy 
me  and  live  in  my  house,  I  must  needs  marry  you  and  live  in 
yours.  That  you  choose  to  lead  a  useful  and  active  life  is  to 
your  honour,  and  will  add  to  my  pride  in  you.  And  now  pray 
let  me  look  over  the  rest  of  this  house,  and  suggest  the  changes 
for  which  you  are  so  anxious." 

Was  it  in  good  earnest  or  to  tease  her  lover  that  Beatrice  pro- 
posed alterations  so  sweeping  that  they  amounted  to  rebuilding 
part  of  the  house,  and  refurnishing  the  whole  ?  He  heard  her  ta 
the  end,  then  said  resolutely : 

"  I  see,  Beatrice,  that  you  want  to  drain  my  pockets ;  but 


324  BEATEIOE. 

you  shall  have  your  way  after  we  are  married,  for  it  would 
simply  be  putting  off  our  wedding  day  six  months  to  begin  by 
complying  with  your  demands." 

"  That  is  to  say  I  am  to  have  my  way  provided  you  first 
have  yours  ?  " 

"My  exact  meaning.  And  -^here  shall  I  find  you  this 
evening  ?  " 

"  On  the  downs.     We  mean  to  go  there." 

" Beatrice,  there  shall  be  no  delay,  shall  there?  " 

"  Sceptic ! " 

"Beatrice,  I  cannot  help  it.  It  is  so  great  a  happiness  that 
I  shall  doubt  to  the  last.  Confess  yourself  it  is  incredible  that  a 
rich  girl  like  you  should  throw  herself  away  upon  a  poor  country 
doctor  like  Grilbert  Gervoise,  and  be  glad  to  be  buried  alive  with 
him  in  a  place  like  Yerville." 

Beatrice  did  not  answer.  She  went  down-stairs  back  to  her 
mother,  and  spoke  no  more  until  they  left.  She  did  not  look  of- 
fended, and  Gilbert  knew  her  too  well  to  fear  that  she  was  ;  but 
still,  as  he  had  told  her,  it  was  incredible,  and  he  went  about  the 
rooms  over  which  they  had  wandered  together,  and  felt  restless, 
impatient,  and  scarcely  happy.  When  he  came  back  to  the  room 
where  the  bird  was  chirping  in  its  cage,  he  looked  at  the  prisoner 
with  a  longing  smile.  Ay !  if  he  only  had  her  so,  fast,  fast 
locked  up,  a  captive,  willing  and  beloved,  chained  by  religion, 
duty,  law,  and  love  !  The  young  doctor,  albeit  not  much  given 
of  late  to  reverie,  sat  down  by  the  open  window,  and  as  he  lis- 
tened to  the  flowing  water  and  the  rustling  trees,  he  fell  into  a 
delicious  dream.  It  was  the  present  and  the  past,  Carnoosie  and 
the  little  childish  Beatrice,  Yerville  and  the  blooming  girl,  the 
old  friendship,  sweet  and  trusting,  and  the  new,  generous,  bound- 
less love.  No,  he  felt  it  in  his  inmost  heart,  few  men  were  loved 
as  he  was.  He  did  not  say  to  himself  that  he  deserved  it,  he 
only  felt  that  he  possessed  this  rare  and  precious  gift,*  and  yield- 
ing to  the  intoxicating  consciousness,  he  revelled  in  dreams  of  his 
future  and  speedy  happiness.  Ay !  she  would  sit  and  work  there, 
and  he  would  come  in  to  her,  and  by  his  presence  bring  sunshine 
to  her  face,  and  receive  the  fulness  of  content  in  his  heart.  Years 
passed  in  that  dream,  and  children  who  had  their  mother's  dark 
eyes  played  around  them,  or  sat  on  her  lap,  or  slept  on  her 
bosom.  Every  fond  and  tender  thought  which  can  gladden  the 
heart  of  man,  which  can  sweeten  domestic  Kfe,  and  make  its  hap- 
piness more  complete  and  full,  passed  through  Gilbert's  dream 
during  the  next  hour.     If  this  cup  of  happiness  be  sweet,  he 


BEATEICE.  325 

quaffed  it  then,  and,  prodigal  for  once,  he  quaffed  it  without 
measure  or  stint.  No  darkness  and  no  cloud  came  over  the 
future.  Time  robbed  not  Beatrice  of  one  girlish  grace,  and  the 
young  matron  was  as  fresh  and  as  blooming  as  the  girl.  Sick- 
ness, sorrow,  were  absent  from  that  new  world,  so  unlike  the  real 
and  the  true,  for  in  it  all  was  content,  peace,  and  love. 

"  Monsieur  works  too  hard,"  thought  Babet,  in  her  kitchen  ; 
"  there  he  has  been  locked  up  with  his  books  the  whole  morning." 

Ah !  Babet,  grudge  him  not  the  book  in  v^hich  he  is  now 
reading.  It  is  very  sweet  and  fair,  no  poet  ever  penned  a  fairer  ; 
and,  alas !  it  is  a  book  which  few  open,  and  fewer  still  read  to 
the  end  without  much  sorrow,  and  many  bitter  tears. 


CHAPTER  XL.  \ 

There  is  no  reason  why  we  should  go  on  dreaming  of  love  and 
Beatrice  with  Gilbert  Gervoise.  He  is  not  thirty  yet ;  he  is  in 
the  very  prime  and  noon  of  love,  when  it  has  lost  its  early  weak- 
ness, and  is  mature  and  ripe,  and  strong  as  red  wine.  Let  him 
dream.  The  wakening  will  soon  come,  it  is  coming  fast,  nay,  it 
has  arrived  in  the  chateau  of  Verville  under  the  shape  and  as- 
pect of  Mr.  Gervoise. 

Neither  his  wife  nor  his  step-daughter  was  within,  but 
Brownson,  Mrs.  Gervoise's  maid,  was.  With  this  discreet 
damsel,  who  had  succeeded  Miss  Jameson  and  Mrs.  Scot  in  their 
office  of  private  and  delicate  inquiry,  Mr.  Gervoise  had  a  long 
conversation,  and,  to  his  dismay,  learned  how  rapidly  matters 
had  been  going  on  whilst  he  was  away. 

We  say  to  his  dismay,  for  Mr.  Gervoise's  plans  had  under- 
gone a  radical  change.  Of  the  two  arrows  in  his  quiver,  one  had 
taken  such  sure  and  speedy  effect  that  it  would  be  more  danger- 
ous than  useful  to  discharge  the  other.  He  accordingly  gave 
prompt  orders  for  packing  up,  and  leaving  the  servants  engaged 
in  the  task,  he  went  off  to  Gilbert's  house. 

Mr.  Gervoise  found  his  son  within,  and  he  lost  no  time  in 
opening  the  business  in  hand. 

"  I  thought  Mrs.  Gervoise  and  Beatrice  were  here,  Gilbert," 
he  said,  looking  round.  Gilbert  replied  they  were  gone,  but  he  did 
not  add  that  they  were  on  the  downs,  where  he  was  to  join  them. 

"  I  want  to  tell  them  that  we  are  going  off  this  evening," 
calmly  continued  Mr.  Gervoise  ;  "  it  is  late,  they  really  have  no 
time  to  lose." 

"  Going  to-night ! "  exclaimed  Gilbert. 

"  And  pray  why  should  you  object?  "  asked  his  father.  His 
tone  was  curt  and  aggressive,  and  yet  Gilbert  had  no  choice  ;  he 
must  speak,  and  speak  at  once. 

"  My  reason  for  objecting,"  he  replied,  "  is  that,  acting  on 
your  wishes,  I  am  going  to  marry  Miss  Gordon." 


BEATEICE.  327 

Mr.  Gervoise  looked  all  amazement. 

"  You — you  going  to  marry  Beatrice  !  "  lie  cried. 

"  Miss  Gordon  is  of  age,"  said  Gilbert,  "  she  is  ;jvilling  that 
you  should  reside  in  Carnoosie,  and  she  will  live  here  with  her 
mother  and  me.  I  will  make  any  other  concession  you  can 
name.  Give  up  all  right  over  the  chateau  at  Verville — do  any 
thing,  in  short." 

Mr.  Gervoise  gave  him  a  half  contemptuous  look. 

"  You  shall  never  marry  Beatrice  Gordon  with  my  consent," 
was  his  reply. 

"  I  can  marry  her  without  your  consent,"  replied  Gilbert, 
reddening  and  forgetting  the  existence  of  Mrs.  Gervoise. 

"  Beatrice  must  not  marry,  and  she  shall  not,"  said  Mr.  Ger- 
voise. "  I  have  quite  changed  my  mind  on  that  subject.  As  to 
your  proposal  that  my  wife  should  come  here  and  live  with  you — 
it  is  simply  insolent." 

Gilbert  looked  very  hard  at  his  father.  What  did  he  mean 
by  this  sudden  change  ?  what  did  he  mean  by  saying  that  Bea- 
trice should  never  marry?  He  could  not  prevent  her  from 
marrying. 

"  Mrs.  Gervoise  has  not  many  years  to  live,"  said  Gilbert 
calmly  ;  "  when  she  dies,  it  seems  to  me  that  the  power  which 
Beatrice's  love  for  her  mother  gives  you  dies  too." 

Mr.  Gervoise  was  probably  aware  that  he  had  said  too  much, 
for  he  did  not  answer  one  word,  but  walked  to  the  door. 

"  Is  there  no  chance  of  our  agreeing?  "  asked  Gilbert. 

"  None,"  replied  Mr.  Gervoise,  and  he  walked  out. 

Gilbert  went  out  too,  but  by  a  side  door.  He  crossed  a  bridge 
which  spanned  the  river.  He  quickly  made  his  way  to  the 
downs,  and  found  them  waiting  for  him. 

"  Go  and  walk  with  Gilbert,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Gervoise, 
who  looked  very  bright  and  smiling. 

Beatrice  refused,  but  Gilbert  gave  her  a  look  her  mother  could 
not  see,  and  she  altered  her  resolve,  and  walked  away  by  his 
side. 

"  Beatrice,"  he  said,  when  they  were  out  of  hearing,  "  has 
my  father  any  power  over  you  to  prevent  you  from  marrying 
now  or  at  any  future  time  ?  " 

Beatrice  turned  pale. 

"  Is  Mr.  Gervoise  come  back?  "  she  asked. 

"He  is, but  you  have  not  answered  my  question." 

"  He  has  no  power  over  me.    Why  do  you  ask,  Gilbert?  " 

Gilbert  gave  her  a  look  full  of  woe. 


328  BEATRICE. 

"  He  has  refused  his  consent?" 

"  He  has,  Beatrice." 

"  Gilbert,  comply  with  his  terms.  Gilbert,  let  us  be  happy 
— I  do  not  care  about  money." 

"  Beatrice,  my  father  will  take  no  terms.  He  says  you  shall 
never  marry." 

Beatrice  tightened  her  clasped  hands,  and  looked  back  at  the 
spot  where  Mr.  Gervoise  was  sitting.  Ah,  there  was  her  chain, 
and  she  could  not  break  it — ^no,  come  what  would,  she  never 
could  forsake  her.  She  turned  back  to  Gilbert,  and  said  very 
drearily : 

"Well!" 

"  Well,  Beatrice,  must  we  part  once  more?" 

"  I  suppose  so.  And  yet  I  should  so  like  a  little  happiness. 
I  should  so  like  it,  Gilbert.     Let  me  be  happy,  Gilbert." 

The  appeal  almost  unmanned  him.  He  took  her  in  his  arms 
and  covered  her  face  with  kisses  and  tears. 

"  Oh,  that  you  could  be  happy  !  "  he  sighed,  "  as  happy  as  I 
would  make  you  !  " 

"  You  see,"  said  Beatrice,  letting  her  head  sink  on  his  shoul- 
der with  languid  grace,  "  you  see,  I  have  suffered  a  good  deal, 
and  life  is  short,  and  youth  is  still  shorter.  A  few  years  more, 
and  I  shall  be  so  weary  of  it  all  that  I  shall  not  care  what  be- 
comes of  me.  Now  I  still  care  for  myself.  It  has  pleased  God 
that  you  should  love  me,  and  wonder  not  that,  having  received 
such  a  blessing,  I  hold  it  fast  and  let  all  else  go.  I  will  make 
any  concession  to  keep  my  darling  and  stay  with  you.  I  will 
settle  Carnoosie  house  and  estate  on  Mr.  Gervoise  for  my  life- 
time— ^I  cannot  do  more,  surely  he  will  be  satisfied  with  that." 

Gilbert  did  not  answer.  His  countenance  was  turned  from 
hers,  and  he  remained  silent  so  long  that  Beatrice  raised  her 
head,  and  leaned  forward  to  see  him.  His  face  was  pale  as  death, 
his  eyes  were  dull,  his  lips  were  white. 

"  Beatrice,"  he  said,  "  you  will  not  leave  your  mother,  and  I 
dare  not  blame  you  ;  but  neither  must  you  betray  your  conscience 
and  your  honour.  It  is  one  thing  to  allow  my  father  to  live  in 
your  house,  and  another  to  settle  the  estate  upon  him.  I  dare 
not  say  he  would  refuse  such  a  bribe,  though  I  offered  him  Ver- 
ville,  and  he  declined  it ;  but  let  us  be  open,  and  ask  ourselves 
how  he  would  use  this  power  ?  Beatrice,  I  dare  not  answer  this 
question.  But  remember  that  you  are  not  absolute  mistress  of 
this  property.  If  you  have  no  children,  it  is  to  go  to  certain 
heirs,  so  my  father  has  told  me.     How  can  you  then  make  an- 


BEATEICE.  329 

other  sovereign  of  the  little  realm  which  Providence  has  en- 
trusted to  your  care  ?  " 

Beatrice  heard  him  in  silence,  but  with  a  bleeding  heart. 

"  Oh !  Beatrice/'  he  said,  "it  is  bitter ;  but  better  endure 
such  bitterness  than  seek  the  sting  of  a  lasting  shame  !  " 

Beatrice  was  too  proud  to  answer.  She  withdrew  from  his 
side,  and  stood  before  him  collected  and  calm,  though  without  a 
trace  of  colour  in  her  cheeks. 

"  You  are  right,  and  I  was  wrong,"  she  said.  "  Yes,  Gil- 
bert ;  it  would  be  dishonourable  to  give  up  my  inheritance,  even 
to  get  a  few  happy  years.  I  have  often  thought  of  it,  and  often 
rejected  the  thought  with  scorn ;  although,  Gilbert,  I  did  place 
the  great  happiness  of  my  life  in  spending  it  with  you." 

"  Beatrice  !  Beatrice  !  do  not  tempt  me  again." 

"  No,  Gilbert.  And  what  is  more,  I  have  tempted  you  for 
the  last  time.  We  must  not  merely  part,  because  it  would  be 
useless  folly  to  subject  ourselves  to  such  torment ;  but  we  must 
meet  no  more.  You  must  not  write  to  me — Gilbert,  we  must 
not  love." 

Gilbert  looked  at  her  in  mute  and  sorrowful  surprise. 

"  No,  we  must  not  love,"  continued  Beatrice  ;  "  for  the  love 
that  leads  to  nothing  is,  I  see,  a  snare  and  a  danger.  Besides, 
why  should  I  hide  it  from  myself,  Gilbert  ?  You  are  too  much 
above  me,  and  I  am  too  much  below  you.  I  am  so  weak,  so 
erring.  Oh !  if  I  could,  how  I  would  annihilate  that  duty, 
honour,  and  sacrifice  which  are  ever  before  you !  I  know  you 
love  me  truly  and  nobly,  Gilbert,  but  then  you  can  do  without 
that  love,  and  I  feel,  too,  you  are  best  without  it.  I  have  been 
to  blame  from  the  first.  I  compelled  you  to  speak  when  you 
wanted  to  remain  silent ;  I  would  be  engaged  when  you  wanted 
us  to  be  free.  Forgive  me,  Gilbert,  I  knew  no  better.  I  had  a 
heart  full  of  hope  then,  and  thought  every  obstacle  must  yield  to 
my  will.  Now  I  confess  myself  conquered.  Our  case  is  hope- 
less. Let  us  part  then.  We  are  old  friends  now  ;  we  are  not 
lovers,  and  you  are  no  more  the  Gilbert  whom  twice  I  was 
going  to  marry." 

"  Is  that  your  final  resolve,  Beatrice?  " 

"  It  is.  You  are  blameless  in  my  eyes,  all  but  perfect ;  but, 
Gilbert,  we  are  best  apart,  for  we  did  not  love  after  the  same 
fashion.  You  were  ever  ready  to  give  me  up,  because  it  was 
right,  and  I  to  love  on,  whether  is  was  right  or  wrong  to  do  so. 
Ah  !  why  did  you  not  marry  Mademoiselle  Joanne  ?  for  then  you 
would  have  been  happy,  and  we  should  have  been  friends  for 
life." 


330  BEATRICE. 

Gilbert  did  not  speak  at  once.  He  could  not.  Beatrice  did 
not  know  how  deep  a  wound  her  words  inflicted.  So  that  was 
how  the  woman  he  held  so  dear  read  him !  as  a  cold,  passionless 
being,  who  could  sacrifice  easily,  because  he  did  not  feel  deeply. 
Do  not  repine,  Gilbert,  yours  is  no  solitary  fate  !  The  men  and 
women  who  break  their  hearts  at  the  voice  of  duty,  who  do  not 
display  the  bleeding  wound  even  to  the  loved  one's  eye,  must 
never  expect  their  reward  here  below.  They  will  be  thought  too 
perfect,  ungenial,  admirable  no  doubt,  but  scarcely  human  ;  and 
they  who  yield  to  their  impulses,  who  gratify  their  passions,  will 
be  said  to  feel  strongly.  All  these  thoughts  passed  rapidly 
through  Gilbert's  mind.  .  But  he  loved  Beatrice  deeply  and 
tenderly,  even  though  she  was  unjust,  and  that  love  told  him  it 
was  best  for  her  not  to  be  bound  to  him.  It  was  not  in  his 
power  to  make  her  happy,  let  her  then  be  free !  He  walked 
away  a  few  steps,  that  she  might  not  see  the  deep  grief  he  could 
not  have  concealed  ;  he  was  tolerably  calm  when  he  came  back 
to  the  spot  where  he  had  left  her  standing.  He  did  not  attempt 
to  justify  himself  and  enlighten  her — better  let  her  think  he  was 
passionless  and  cold ;  he  only  said  with  sorrowful  calmness  : 

"  Let  it  be  as  you  wish.     Good-bye,  Beatrice." 

But  there  was  something  in  his  tone  that  frightened  her,  and 
made  her  heart  sick — a  revelation  of  her  cruel  injustice. 

"  You  are  not  angry  with  me,  Gilbert?"  she  said. 

"  Angry !  why  should  I  be  angry?  " 

*' Because  I  always  say  and  do  the  wrong  thing,"  im- 
petuously cried  Beatrice — "  because  I  am  so  imperfect,  so 
erring."  / 

He  looked  .at  her,  and  felt  very  weak.  Ay,  she  was  indeed 
an  erring  creature  ;  but  how  attractive  were  her  errors  !  She 
was  indeed  no  perfect  being,  not  even  in  his  eyes,  but  how 
delightful  it  would  have  been  to  possess  such  sweet  imperfection, 
and  call  it  his  for  ever !  Why  was  this  handsome  and  ardent 
girl,  who  loved  him  so  fondly,  and  was  ever  longing  to  give  her- 
self to  him,  so  far  beyond  his  reach  ?  Why  could  he  not  pluck 
th^  ripe  and  delicious  fruit,  but  must  leave  it  on  the  bough  for 
another  hand  to  gather,  and  another  heart  to  enjoy  at  last?  He 
could  not  bear  to  look  at  her,  and  turned  his  eyes  away  from 
a  face  that  must  henceforth  be  forbidden  to  their  gaze ;  and 
Beatrice  never  guessed  or  knew  that  the  truest  and  the  most 
impassioned  love  she  was  ever  to  inspire  in  man's  heart,  had  been 
felt  for  her  whilst  she  stood  looking  at  Gilbert's  pale,  sad  face. 

"  I  am  not  offended,"  he  replied  at  length ;  "I  should  be 
most  unjust  if  I  were." 


BEATRICE.  331 

"  And  you  cannot  be  unjust,"  said  Beatrice,  in  a  low  voice. 
"  If'  you  are  beyond  the  weaknesses,  you  are  also  beyond  the 
errors  of  mortality." 

She  could  not  help  looking  at  him  with  the  adoration  which 
was  ever  in  her  heart.  Gilbert  felt  it  was  time  this  should  end. 
A  little  more  and  he  would  take  Beatrice  in  his  arms,  and  they 
would  exchange  new  vows  of  eternal  love,  and  forget  all  in  the 
sweet  delirium  of  passion. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said  again.  And,  without  an  embrace, 
without  one  touch  of  her  hand,  he  turned  away  and  left  her. 

He  walked  down  the  cliff  with  more  eager  haste  than  he  had 
felt  when  he  came  up  to  meet  Beatrice.  He  turned  his  back  on 
his  lost  happiness,  and  did  not  look  round.  With  calm  despair 
he  went  on,  seeking  his  own  woe.  It  was  all  over.  That 
young  folly  was  ended.  It  had  always  been  madness,  though  it 
had  been  so  sweet ;  it  was  better  to  have  it  over.  Calm,  reso- 
lute, though  ^ale,  Gilbert  Gervoise  entered  the  house  of  which 
Beatrice  was  not  to  become  mistress.  He  walked  over  the 
rooms  through  which  they  had  gone  that  morning,  and  wondered 
to  find  them  so  chill,  and  cold,  and  dreary.  He  entered  last  that 
where  Beatrice  had  said : 

"  I  shall  sit  and  read  here,"  and  he  looked  at  the  bird  in  its 
cage.  After  a  while  he  took  it  out,  opened  the  window,  then 
tossed  it  on  the  evening  air  and  bade  it  seek  another  master. 

The  bird  flew  away  with  a  wondering  scream,  but  Gilbert 
did  not  watch  its  flight.  He  shut  the  window  on  the  little 
stranger,  and  shut  it,  too,  upon  hope  and  love. 

And  how  fared  it  with  Beatrice  after  that  sad  parting  on  the 
downs?  Calmly  enough  she  went  back  to  her  mother,  and 
merely  saying  that  Gilbert  had  been  obliged  to  go  home,  she  sat 
down  by  her,  and  clasping  her  hands  around  her  knees,  looked 
at  the  red  sun  slowly  bending  towards  the  west. 

There  are  days  and  hours  that  seem  to  burn  themselves  into 
memory,  and  such  was  this  hour  to  Beatrice. 

The  sun  was  dying  on  the  golden  horizon  like  a  king  on  his 
couch.  He  was  dying,  wrapped  in  purple  and  flame  ;  proudly, 
carelessly,  for  he  knew  that  he  should  be  born  again  on  the 
morrow.  The  evening  was  beautiful  and  very  still :  air,  earth, 
sea,  and  heavens  were  mute.  The  spot  was  lone,  the  wild 
downs,  the  vast  sea,  the  beach  and  its  edge  of  foam,  and  the 
setting  sun,  were  all  Beatrice  saw.  Fast,  very  fast,  sank  the 
sun ;  and  the  faster  it  sank  the  fainter  grew  the  beatings  of 
Beatrice's  heart.     It  was  all  over,  all,  every  thing ;  that  sun  was 


332  BEATEICE. 

her  destiny.  The  yellow  orb  touched  the  blue  edge  of  the  wave  ; 
it  was  but  a  half  sun  now,  it  was  but  the  last  bright  edge  of  a 
golden  globe — it  was  nothing — it  was  gone — the  dark  bitter 
waters  of  Time  had  closed  over  it. 

"  Beatrice ! "  cried  her  mother,  alarmed  at  her  desolate, 
intent  look. 

Beatrice  turned  round. 

"  Darling,"  she  said  passionately,  "  he  has  left  me  for  ever — 
and  my  heart  is  broken  !  " 

There  was  a  long  silence. 

"  I  wish  I  were  dead ! "  piteously  said  Mrs.  Gervoise  ;  "  I 
am  the  cause — I  am  the  cause  !  " 

Beatrice  started  to  her  feet  with  a  sort  of  terror. 

"  If  you  love  me,  never  say  that,"  she  cried — "  never  ! " 

And  as  the  dew  was  falling,  she  took  her  arm  and  led  her  in. 
They  found  Mr.  Gervoise  waiting  for  them,  and  very  cross  at 
their  long  stay. 

"  I  am  surprised  at  you.  Miss  Gordon,  to  keep  Mrs.  Gervoise 
out  so  long." 

Beatrice  did  not  answer.  She  felt  mortal  hatred  in  her  heart 
as  she  looked  at  him,  and  she  also  felt  that  that  hatred  was  a 
crime. 

"We  are  going  back  to  Carnoosie  within  the  next  hour," 
continued  Mr.  Gervoise.     "  Please  to  be  ready." 

Mrs.  Gervoise  felt  full  of  dismay,  but  did  not  dare  to  answer. 
Beatrice  resolved  not  to  speak,  but  stood  and  looked  out  of  the 
window.  Suddenly  she  started.  She  saw  Babet,  Gilbert's  ser- 
vant, coming  up  the  avenue  with  a  letter  in  her  hand.  She  felt 
it  was  for  her,  and  at  once  left  the  room  and  swiftly  went  down 
stairs.  She  reached  the  door  as  Babet  was  hand^g  the  letter 
to  her  mother's  maid,  Brownson. 

"  That  letter  is  for  me,  Brownson,"  said  Beatrice,  and  unable  to 
deny  the  fact  in  the  presence  of  Babet,  Brownson  slowly  replied 
she  believed  it  was,  and  reluctantly,  as  Beatrice  could  see,  sur- 
rendered it  to  her,  without  have  first  taken  it,  as  in  duty  bound, 
to  her  honoured  master. 

Beatrice  broke  the  seal  and  unfolded  the  page  on  which 
Gilbert  had  merely  written, 

"  If  ever  you  want  a  friend,  send  for  me. 

"  Gilbert." 

It  was  all,  but  it  was  enough.     Beatrice  knew  his  meaning. 


BEATEICE.  833 

He  was  hers  in  sorrow  and  danger ;  hers  entirely.  She  went 
up  the  staircase  and  met  Mr.  Gervoise  half  way. 

"  You  have  received  a  letter,"  he  said,  looking  at  the  open 
page  in  her  hand.     "  It  is  a  short  One." 

"  It  is  an  appointment,"  replied  Beatrice,  with  a  bright,  defi- 
ant smile  ;  and  she  passed  on,  leaving  him  perplexed. 

That  same  evening  they  left  Yerville,  and  the  old  chateau 
was  shut  up  once  more. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

"It  is  better  to  be  at  Carnoosie/'  thouglit  Beatrice,  as  she 
stood  once  more  in  her  favorite  avenue,  and  looking  around  her, 
felt  that  land  and  sea  divided  her  from  Gilbert.  "  It  would  have 
been  too  hard  to  have  remained  in  that  little  French  village,  and 
yet  be  separated  from  him.  Here  I  can  bear  my  fate  ;  I  have 
chosen  it,  and  I  will  abide  by  it." 

But  it  was  a  hard  fate,  and  hard  was  the  battle  she  had  to 
fight  against  her  own  longing  heart.  She  had  given  up  Gilbert, 
and  no  doubt  she  had  done  well.  What  availed  an  engagement 
which,  as  she  had  said  to  him,  was  only  a  snare  and  a  danger 
to  them  both  ?  But  perilous  though  it  was,  it  had  been  a  pleas- 
ure too — a  deep,  exquisite  pleasure.  And  now  it  was  gone. 
No  more  could  she  think  of  him  and  say,  "  He  is  mine  !"  No 
more  must  she  expect  the  fond  and  yet  manly  letters  which  had 
been  the  food  of  her  heart  so  long. 

"  And  yet  he  loves  me  still,"  thought  Beatrice  ;  "  and  I  have 
but  to  send  for  him  and  he  will  come." 

There  was  sweetness  in  that  thought,  a  triumphant  sweetness 
made  to  gladden  a  proud  woman's  heart.  And  as  she  thought 
so,  Beatrice  walked  on  beneath  the  shade  of  the  mighty  trees  with 
a  quick  and  eager  step.  She  went  on  as  if  she  were  going  to 
meet  Gilbert,  but  alas  !  the  endless  green  of  her  wide  demesne 
alone  met  her  view ;  she  saw  herself  the  mistress  of  that  stately 
solitude,  beloved,  indeed,  but  alone.  She  stood  still  and  looked 
around  her.  The  solemn  trees  arched  their  green  summits  above 
her  head.  How  mighty,  how  eternal  they  looked,  these  friends 
of  her  childhood  and  comforters  of  her  youth ! 

"I  wonder  if  they  know  me  as  I  know  them?"  thought- 
Beatrice.  "  I  wonder  if  it  is  something  to  them  when  I  pass 
beneath  them  glad  and  happy,  or  disturbed  at  heart  and  troubled, 
as  I  am  now  ?  Who  knows  where  the  communion  between  man 
and  nature  ends?  And  there  is  wonderful  life  in  trees.  A 
mountain  looks  inert  and  cold.     Snow,  torrid  heat,  are  the  same 


BEATRICE.  335 

to  rock  and  granite.  But  a  tree  has  life.  It  is  bom,  and  it  dies, 
and  between  these  two  extremes  it  has  green  youth  and  stately 
maturity.  Man  can  fell  and  lightning  scathe  it ;  it  is  mortal  in 
its  vicissitudes,  grandly  immortal  in  its  durability.  How  old  are 
these  oaks  ?  Older  than  the  coming  of  the  Carnoosies  from  Scot- 
land to  this  their  English  estate.  I  wonder  if  they  liked  the 
Carnoosies,  or  if  they  care  about  Beatrice  Gordon  ?  Was  there 
some  elder  brood  more  racy  of  the  soil,  more  Saxon  or  Norman, 
whom  they  loved  better  ?  Have  we  been  aliens  and  intruders 
here — Scotch  beggars  come  to  fatten  on  English  land  ?  Never 
mind,  good  oaks  !  We  have  been  your  masters,  our  breath  has 
been  your  fiat.  You  have  flourished  with  our  favour,  and  stood 
or  fallen  at  our  decree  ;  but  do  not  fear  me,  whilst  I  live  and 
have  power  you  are  secure.  Dews  of  heaven  shall  bathe  your 
boughs,  and  earth  moisture  feed  your  roots ;  birds  shall  build 
their  nests  in  your  branches,  and  rear  their  young,  and  sing  love- 
song  between  your  leaves,  and  the  fawn  shall  rest  beneath  your 
long  shadows,  and  a  kind  mistress  shall  you  ever  find  Beatrice 
Gordon!" 

She  looked  at  the  trees,  and  tears  stood  in  her  eyes,  for  the 
emptiness  and  the  folly  of  her  rhapsody  were  heavy  upon  her. 
What  was  she  dreaming  about  trees,  and  all  but  talking  to  them 
for?  Because  her  lot  was  so  lone  that  her  heart  overflowed,  and 
she  was  Beatrice  Gordon,  young,  pretty,  and  rich,  but  solitary. 

"  And  alone  I  must  ever  be,"  thought  Beatrice.  "  Oh  !  Gil- 
bert !  Gilbert !  I  would  give  all  the  oaks  in  Carnoosie  for  a 
gooseberry  bush  in  your  garden  !  Oh  !  Gilbert,  shall  we  never 
be  happy — never?" 

She  flung  herself  on  the  still  dewy  grass  at  the  foot  of  an 
aged  beech.  She  shed  bitter  tears,  and  where  was  the  com- 
munion of  nature  ?  Birds  sang,  leaves  rustled,  stirred  by  the 
pleasant  breeze,  and  Beatrice  might  weep,  whilst  aU  around  her 
rejoiced. 

In  a  mood  subdued  and  sad,  the  mistress  of  Carnoosie 
returned  to  the  house.  As  she  crossed  the  flower-garden  she 
caught  sight  of  two  figures  passing  arm-in-arm  through  the 
orchard  door.  She  remained  petrified,  for  in  one  she  recognized 
Antony,  and  in  the  other  Miss  Stone.  In  a  moment  Beatrice 
saw  it  all ;  they  were  married,  and  they  were  living  in  Carnoosie  ! 
She  turned  round  in  a  transport  of  indignation  and  saw  Mr. 
Gervoise  standing  on  the  terrace  looking  at  her  with  an  odd  smile. 
She  went  up  to  him,  and  said  briefly : 

"  Mr.  Gervoise,  I  will  not  have  them  here." 


336  BEATRICE. 

"  Miss  Gordon,  where  I  am  my  son  and  his  wife  shall  be." 

"  Go,  then.     I  will  not  have  them  here." 

"  If  I  go,  my  wife  goes  with  me  ;  but  I  may  add,  to  relieve 
your  mind,  that  I  will  not  go  ! " 

He  gave  her  a  cold,  deliberate  look,  turned  his  back  upon 
her,  and  entered  the  house. 

Beatrice  went  up  to  the  room  where  her  mother  was  resting 
from  the  fatigue  of  the  journey.  She  learned  from  her  that 
Antony  had  run  away  with  Miss  Stone,  and  that  Mr.  Gervoise, 
after  being  desperately  angry,  had  forgiven  him. 

"  And  if  you  care  for  me,  Beatrice,"  pathetically  added  Mrs. 
Gervoise,  "do  let  them  stay  here.  Surely  the  house  is  large 
enough,  and  Mr.  Gervoise  declares  that  if  they  go,  I  must  go 
too." 

Beatrice's  lips  trembled  with  passionate  indignation,  but  once 
more  she  felt  her  powerlessness.  Mr.  Gervoise  was  complacency 
itself  when  they  met  at  dinner.  Beatrice  was  cold  as  ice  to 
Antony  and  his  young  wife,  but  she  was  strictly  civil.  To  anoth- 
er person,  who  also  sat  at  her  table  an  uninvited  guest,  she  was 
rather  colder  than  to  Mr.  Gervoise's  son  and  daughter-in-law. 
This  person,  who  was  no  other  than  Mr.  Stone,  nevertheless 
filled  her  heart  with  secret  pity.  He  had  aged  ten  years  since 
they  had  met,  and  he  was  now  a  worn  and  grey  old  man,  with  a 
shy,  troubled  look  that  ever  shunned  hers.  He  left  soon  after 
dinner  was  over,  spite  of  Mr.  Gervoise's  fervent  entreaties  that  he 
would  remain ;  and  Beatrice  saw  him  walking  through  the 
grounds  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  his  eyes  bent  on  the 
earth — leaving  his  darling  alone  with  the  despoiler. 

Without  seeming  to  do  so,  Beatrice  also  bestowed  a  consid- 
erable degree  of  her  attention  on  the  young  bride.  Antony's 
manner,  fond  to  his  wife,  defiant  to  her,  did  not  surprise  Bea- 
trice ;  but  Rosy's,  which  was  gay,  saucy,  childish,  and  shrewd 
to  every  one  else,  did — ^for  whenever  their  eyes  met  Rosy  became 
mute,  or  seemed  to  shrink  into  herself  with  a  frightened  air,  and 
she  looked  either  at  her  husband  or  at  Mr.  Gervoise  as  if  for 
protection. 

"  What  have  they  been  saying  about  me  to  that  poor  little 
thing?"  thought  Beatrice;  "well — ^no  matter.  It  is  plain  I 
need  fear  no  encroaching  intimacy.  I  shall  be  left  to  myself — I 
want  no  more." 

If  this  were  all,  indeed,  that  Beatrice  wanted,  she  had  her 
wish.  As  time  passed — and  we  must  let  weeks  go  by — she  per- 
ceived that  she  stood  in  a  sort  of  moral  isolation.    No  one  sought 


BEATEICE.  337 

her  ;  few,  save  her  mother,  spoke  to  her.  Antony's  honeymoon 
overjflowed  with  sweetness,  no  doubt,  and  his  young  wife  was 
evidently  very  fond  of  him,  and  Mr.  Stone,  who  came  daily, 
appeared  reconciled  to  his  fate,  and  Mr.  Gervoise  was  both  grand 
and  meek ;  but  the  mistress  of  the  house  was  as  much  alone  as 
a  statue  in  its  niche,  or  a  goddess  on  her  pedestal. 

It  was  a  solitary  life  that  she  led  in  that  large  Carnoosie  of 
hers — a  deep  lull  before  the  coming  of  the  greatest  storm  in  her 
life.  She  lived  mostly,  when  she  was  not  with  her  mother, 
within  the  shadow  of  her  favourite  oaks.  Young  Mrs.  Gervoise, 
who  was  very  fond  of  fruit,  had  taken  a  fancy  to  the  orchard, 
and  was  often  joined  there  by  her  indolent,  ever-doing-nothing 
husband.  They  seemed  unable  to  live  apart,  yet  Beatrice  noticed 
that  at  meal-times  they  were  fond  and  pettish  by  turns,  and  she 
perceived,  with  great  annoyance,  that  Rosy  did  her  the  honour, 
as  Mr.  Gervoise  would  have  said,  of  being  jealous  of  her.  It 
was  a  small,  childish  jealousy,  that  showed  itself  in  trifles,  and 
which  Antony  most  artfully  fomented.  If  he  spoke  to  Beatrice, 
or  looked  at  her — and  this,  being  the  easiest  of  all,  and  the  most 
difficult  for  her  to  avoid,  and  probably,  too,  the  pleasantest  to 
himself,  Antony  did  most — ^his  young  wife  looked  miserable,  and 
either  sat  apart  sulking  and  seeming  ready  to  cry,  or  she  darted 
angry  glances  at  Miss  Gordon. 

"  Poor  little  thing  ! "  thought  Beatrice,  "  she  does  not  see  the 
trap,"  for  it  was  plain  to  her  that  Mr.  Gervoise  had  advised  his 
son  to  act  this  part  in  order  that  dangerous  intimacy  might  never 
rise  between  his  step-daughter  and  his  daughter-in-law. 

Well  it  was,  therefore,  for  Beatrice  to  live  alone  with  her 
books,  her  oaks,  and  her  solitary  walks — alone  in  that  wide  Car- 
noosie of  which  she  was  mistress  to  her  sorrow. 

There  are  many  sad  and  fearful  dramas  in  private  life.  Some 
are  condemned  to  enact  them  from  the  first  to  the  last  scene  on 
the  great  stage,  and  some  must  sit  in  the  boxes,  and  look  on,  and 
either  fate  cannot  be  avoided.  This  is  no  common  theatre  where, 
having  paid  for  your  seat,  you  can  rise  and  leave  ere  the  play  is 
half  over,  because  you  are  weary  with  its  dulness  or  grieved  at 
its  incident.  You  must  sit  through  the  five  acts,  and  when  these 
are  over,  you  may  in  your  turn  ascend  the  stage  and  become  an 
actor,  and  have  others  looking  on,  laughing  at  your  troubles,  and 
perhaps  grieving  at  your  grief.  Such  a  spectator  now  became 
Beatrice.  Her  own  drama  was  either  over  or  still  to  come,  but 
before  her  eyes,  and  within  her  compidsory  observation,  was 
enacted  the  drama  of  young  Mrs.  Gervoise's  life. 
15 


338  BEATRICE. 

Mr.  Gervoise  could  never  be  at  rest.  He  should  rule  and 
torment,  and  he  now  fixed  on  Mr.  Stone.  He  had  managed  him 
so  easily,  and  Mr.  Stone  had  taken  his  daughter's  elopement  so 
quietly,  that  Mr.  Gervoise  had  felt  bound  to  go  on.  Had  he 
been  more  observant,  he  might  have  noticed  that  Mr.  Stone  was 
silent  and  gloomy,  that  he  often  forgot  to  shave,  that  he  angled 
no  more,  that  he  walked  listlessly  with  downcast  eyes,  and  show- 
ed the  symptoms  which  appear  when  a  man's  affections  or  his 
pride  have  received  some  hopeless  wound ;  but  it  would  have 
been  useless  to  complain,  and  Mr.  Stone  knew  it  and  was  silent. 

This  Mr.  Gervoise  forgot.  He  forgot  that  resentment  can 
be  silent  as  well  as  spoken,  and  he  most  amiably  endeavoured  to 
persuade  Mr.  Stone  that  he  could  not  do  better  than  take  up  his 
final  residence  in  Carnoosie. 

"  Let  us  make  but  one  family,"  he  said  affectionately. 

"  Excuse  me.  Miss  Gordon  is  the  mistress  of  Carnoosie." 

"  The  owner  of  Carnoosie — I  am  master.  Poor  Beatrice  is 
unfit  for  authority,  you  know." 

This  allusion  to  Beatrice's  supposed  insanity  exasperated  Mr. 
Stone.  He  had  been  deceived  once,  he  knew  better  now,  but  he 
was  silent,  his  little  Rosy  might  suffer  if  he  spoke. 

"  I  might  assist  you  in  your  business  matters,"  continued 
Mr.  Gervoise. 

"  I  have  none,"  was  the  short  answer. 

But  Mr.  Gervoise  would  not  be  disheartened.  He  had  a  long 
purse  of  his  own,  yet  he  was  always  longing  to  dip  his  fingers 
into  somebody  else's.  Beatrice's  was  closed  now,  Antony's  was 
empty.  If  he  could  only  persuade  Mr.  Stone  to  invest  his  money 
in  pictures  !  Cautiously  he  felt  his  ground,  and,  encouraged  by 
Mr.  Stone's  patience,  he  opened  his  batteries.  Mr.  Stone  had 
borne  heavier  wrongs  and  not  murmured,  but  this  insolent  at- 
tempt made  the  cup  overflow. 

Mr.  Gervoise  and  Mr.  Stone  were  sitting  on  the  terrace. 
Beatrice^was  standing  a  little  apart  from  them.  Her  eyes  were 
fixed  on  the  flower-garden  and  the  fountains,  but  she  did  not  see 
them.  She  saw  a  cross  on  lonely  cliffs  and*  a  red  sun  setting 
above  a  dark  blue  sea,  and  she  went  over  the  unutterable  bitter- 
ness of  a  last  parting. 

Absorbed  in  her  own  thoughts,  she  lost  the  opening  of  the 
critical  conversation,  but  roused  at  length  by  Mr.  Stone's  angry 
voice,  a  very  unusual  sound,  she  listened  without  looking  round. 

"  Pictures  ! "  that  gentleman  was  saying,  "  and  who  save 
fools  care  for  pictures?  Perhaps  you  take  me  for  a  fool,  sir?" 
he  said  bitterly. 


BEATRICE.  339 

"  Heaven  forbid  ! "  piously  answered  Mr.  Gervoise,  "  a  man 
of  sounder  judgment  I  never  met  with  than  Joseph  Stone,  Esq." 

"  But  he  did  not  show  much  by  letting  your  scapegrace  son 
come  within  reach  of  his  pretty  daughter,  did  he,  Mr.  Ger- 
voise ?  " 

"  My  dear  sir,  why  bring  up  this  unpleasant  past?  Have  I, 
too,  not  been  wronged?  Was  not  this  stolen  match  as  great  an 
offence  to  me  as  it  was  to  you?" 

Beatrice  gently  turned  her  head. 

Mr.  Stone  had  risen  ;  she  saw  him  stare  at  Mr.  Gervoise, 
still  calmly  sitting,  and  there  was  ill-concealed  fury  in  the  gaze. 

"  An  offence  to  you ! "  he  said  at  length,  "  the  thing  for 
which  you  plotted  and  plotted  till  it  came  to  pass." 

"  I !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Gervoise  in  amazed  innocence.  "  Why, 
I  was  in  France  at  the  time  !  " 

"  In  France  !  of  course  you  were — you  kept  out  of  the  way 
— an  old  dodge  !  " 

"  Mr.  Stone,  you  forget  yourself,"  virtuously  said  Mr.  Ger-: 
voise ;  "it  was  you  who  advised  me  to  take  that  French  jour- 
ney. And  now  my  eyes  are  opened  at  last.  Is  it  possible  you 
were  in  a  plot  with  your  daughter  to  entrap  my  unfortunate 
son?" 

He  pointed  his  fore-finger  at  Mr.  Stone,  who  stood  silent, 
confounded  at  this  rare  impudence. 

"  Of  course  that  is  it ! "  resumed  Mr.  Gervoise,  amazed  at 
his  long  blindness,  "  of  course  it  is ;  you  advised  me  to 
travel  on  I  know  not  what  flimsy  pretence,  and  the  very  night  I 
left  your  daughter  ran  away  with  my  poor  boy.  Mr.  Stone, 
was  that  right  ? — was  it  just  ?  " 

"  I  have  deserved  it,"  at  length  said  Mr.  Stone,  wiping  his 
forehead  ;  "  I  was  warned  you  were  a  devil — a  real  devil,  and  I 
would  no't  believe  it — I  have  deserved  it !  " 

"  Mr.  Stone,  do  not  be  absurd,  I  beg.  I  have  a  great  dis- 
like to  absurdity,  and  allow  me  to  remind  you  of  a  few  facts, 
just  a  few.  I  did  nothing  to  draw  you  to  this  house  ;  I  seldom 
went  near  you,  and  finally,  when  I  went  to  France,  it  was  on 
your  urgent  advice.  I  defy  you  to  prove  in  the  faintest  manner 
that  I  ever  did  the  least  thing  to  promote  this  unfortunate  mar- 
riage. I  am  secure  there,  Mr.  Stone,  and  I  repeat  it — I  defy 
you." 

l       He  spoke  as  he  felt,  with  insolent  triumph.     We  all  like 
[and  enjoy  success,  and  Mr.  Gervoise  was  not  above  this  weak- 


340  BEATRICE. 

ness.  His  well-laid  plans  had  not  been  defeated,  in  one  tittle — 
every  thing  had  come  to  pass  as  he  had  schemed  it ;  why,  then, 
not  enjoy  the  innocent  gratification  of  proving  to  Mr.  Stone  that 
he  had  been  thoroughly  defeated  ? 

"  You  are  a  devil,"  said  Mr.  Stone  again,  "  a  real  devil. 
Rosy,  come  and  kiss  me,"  he  added,  turning  to  his  daughter, 
who  was  coming  up  the  stone  steps  with  her  husband,  "  come 
and  kiss  me,  my  poor  darling,"  continued  her  father  ;  "  I  am  go- 
ing away,  and  you  will  not  see  me  here  in  a  hurry." 

Rosy  gave  her  father  and  Mr.  Gervoige  a  scared  look.  .She 
saw  well  enough  they  had  been  quarreling,  and  Mr.  Stone's  face 
told  her  the  quarrel  had  been  a  severe  one.  She  stood  for  a 
moment  like  one  bewildered,  then  she  sprang  toward  her  father 
with  a  pitiful  cry.  She  clung  to  him  with  a  passion  which  was 
more  than  sorrowful — it  was  desperate.  Alas  !  she  had  felt  secure 
and  strong  whilst  he  was  by,  and  she  felt  weak  and  forsaken  now  that 
he  was  going.  Antony  stood  and  looked  on,  at  first  with  a  sneer, 
then  with  dark  and  jealous  displeasure,  and  as  his  nature  was 
coarse  as  well  as  cruel,  he  soon  went  up  to  his  wife,  and  taking 
hold  of  her  arm,  attempted  to  pull  her  away. 

"  Come  along,  you  idiot !  "  he  said.  "  And  as  for  you,  sir," 
he  added  insolently,  turning  on  his  father-in-law,  "  leave  the 
house ! " 

Mr.  Stone  had  no  time  to  reply  or  to  resent  the  insult.  Bea- 
trice had  come  forward,  and  turning  her  flushed  and  indignant 
face  on  Antony,  she  said : 

"  Mr.  Antony  Gervoise,  attempt  to  repeat  words  like  these 
in  my  house,  and  you  leave  it  forever  and  on  the  instant !  " 

Antony,  who  had  not  seen  her,  drew  back  almost  frightened. 
Beatrice  turned  to  Mr.  Stone,  and  said  quietly  : 

"  I  hope  I  need  not  tell  you  that  I  am  mistress  here,  and  that 
you  are  welcome  to  come  or  stay  at  your  pleasure." 

"  Thank  you,  ma'am,  thank  you — much  obliged,"  said  Mr. 
Stone,  without  heeding  her,  and  looking  at  Rosy  with  eyes  that 
said:  "Oh!  why  can't  I  take  you  away,  my  darling?"  he 
turned  away,  and  with  a  quick  step  walked  out  of  that  ill-fated 
Carnoosie.  Rosy,  bathed  in  tears,  stood  looking  after  him,  then 
ran  to  overtake  him  ;  two  hands  of  steel  held  her  back.  Antony 
looked  savage,  but  said  nothing.  Mr.  Gervoise  said,  with  aus- 
tere courtesy : 

"Know  your  duty,  madam,  I  pray.  Stay  with  your  hus- 
band.    Know  your  duty,  I  say." 

Rosy  gave  Beatrice   a    pitiful   look,  but    Beatrice,  though 


BEATEICE. 


341 


grieved,  remained  mute,  and  did  not  interfere.  She  could  not ; 
voluntarily  this  young  thing  had  put  the  yoke  around  her  neck, 
and  now  she  must  bear  it. 

That  same  evening  Mr.  Stone  left  the  cottage  ;  he  knew  well 
enough  that  his  presence  there  could  no  longer  serve,  and  might 
injure  his  darling. 


..v4i^/iiil4^-l' 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

The  day  was  dark  and  sullen.  Heavy  clouds  hung  in  the 
sky ;  motionkss  and  vast,  like  stranded  ships,  they  lay  on  that 
grey  sea.  Pale  mists  dropped  above  low  plain  and  wooded  park, 
above  dull  and  silent  mansions,  above  slow  rivers,  that  flowed 
without  a  sound  through  the  summer  landscape. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of  Beatrice  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Gervoise. 

Beatrice  turned  from  the  window  where  she  had  been  look- 
ing at  the  clouds. 

"  Are  you  thinking  of  Gilbert?"  continued  her  mother. 

A  sharp  thrill  of  pain  shot  through  Beatrice's  heart.  She 
thought  of  Gilbert  daily,  almost  hourly,  but  she  could  not  bear 
to  hear  or  to  utter  his  name.  Was  not  all  over  ?  Had  she  not 
told  him  so,  and  had  he  not  ceased  to  write?  Why  was  she 
asked,  then,  if  she  was  thinking  of  him  ?  " 

"  I  was  thinking  of  Mrs.  Antony  Gervoise,"  she  replied ; 
"  she  looks  wretched." 

"  Poor  young  thing !  "  sighed  Mrs.  Gervoise.  "  But,  Bea- 
trice, do  not  meddle,"  she  added  timorously,  "pray  do  not !  " 

"  I  do  not  intend  it,  darling,"  sadly  said  Beatrice.  "  Where 
is  the  use  of  meddling  when  I  cannot  mend  ?  " 

"  My  dear,  you  look  very  low.  You  stay  too  much  with  me. 
Why  do  you  not  go  out  and  take  a  walk  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  walk  to-day." 

"Why  do  you  not  go  out  and  sketch,  then?  You  used  to 
sketch,  Beatrice ;  but  you  are  not  the  same  since  we  went  to 
Verville." 

Beatrice  rose  quickly. 

"  You  are  quite  right,  darling,"  she  said.  "  I  shall  go  out 
and  sketch.  The  rainy  weather  will  soon  come,  and  then  I  can- 
not." 

She  took  her  sketch-book  and  went  out  with  a  sort  of  haste. 
Oh !  if  she  could  have  left  her  sad  and  useless  thoughts  behind 
her !     She  sat  down  as  soon  as  she  entered  the  grounds,  but  she 


BEATEICE,  343 

did  not  draw ;  her  book  lay  open  on  her  lap,  and  her  thoughts 
went  back  to  the  pale,  sad  face,  and  the  tearful  eyes  of  little 
Rosy.  Antony's  wife  was  fearfully  altered,  her  cheeks  had 
grown  hollow,  her  plump  little  figure  had  shrunk,  and  she  went 
moping  about  in  a  way  which  made  Beatrice's  heart  ache  when 
they  met,  which  was  but  seldom.  Mrs.  Gervoise  took  her 
meals  in  her  own  room,  and  Beatrice  was  glad  to  take  them 
there  with  her,  and  not  listen  to  Mr.  Gervoise's  polite  insolence, 
or  to  Antony's  coarse  remarks,  both  directed  to  the  young  wife. 
Ever  since  Mr.  Stone's  departure  the  young  man  had  spoken  to 
Rosy,  and  even  looked  at  her  as  if  she  had  lost  all  grace  and  favour 
in  his  eyes.  Was  his  short  love  exhausted,  did  he  resent  his 
wife's  affection  for  her  father,  or,  worse  still,  was  his  nature  so 
mean  that  he  disliked  the  defenceless  being  he  could  now  torment 
with  impunity  ? 

"  And  shall  I  let  him  go  on  tormenting  her  ?  "  thought  Bea- 
trice ;  and  even  as  she  thought  so,  a  light  step  on  the  grass  be- 
hind her  made  her  turn  round.  She  saw  young  Mrs.  Gervoise 
coming  toward  her.  She  looked  listless  and  sad,  and  stopped  by 
Beatrice's  side. 

"  How  nicely  you  draw  !  "  she  said,  with  a  sigh. 

Beatrice  looked  up.  There  were  traces  of  tears  on  Rosy's 
cheeks.  "There  has  been  a  quarrel,  and  she  wants  to  tell  me 
about  it,"  she  thought.     She  replied  coldly  enough  : 

"  I  am  happy  to  hear  you  say  so." 

"  There  is  plenty  to  sketch  in  Carnoosie,"  continued  Mrs. 
Antony  Gervoise,  and  she  sat  down  on  the  grass  by  Beatrice's 
side. 

"  Plenty  indeed,"  replied  Beatrice. 

There  was  a  pause,  then  Mrs.  Antony  Gervoise  said  impet- 
tiously : 

"  I  wish  I  had  never  seen  it,"  and  she  burst  into  tears. 

It  was  not  in  Beatrice's  nature  to  resist  this  appeal  for  sym- 
pathy. She  put  by  her  drawing,  and  turned  to  the  poor  little 
thing  by  her,  who  was  weeping  and  sobbing  as  if  her  heart  would 
break. 

"Be  of  good  cheer,"  she  said,  "  matters  will  mend." 

"  He  told  me  I  did  not  love  him,"  sobbed  Rosy,  "  that  I 
loved  my  father  and  hated  him." 

"  That  was  great  nonsense." 

"  I  hate  Mr.  Gervoise  !  "  impetuously  resumed  Rosy. 

Beatrice  looked  at  her  compassionately.  So  she,  too,  knew 
whence  all  the  mischief  in  Carnoosie  came. 


344:  BEATRICE. 

"  It  was  he  told  my  husband  I  did  not  love  him — ^Antony  told 
me  so." 

"  Like  father,  like  son,"  thought  Beatrice. 

"  I  wish  I  were  out  of  this  house,"  sobbed  the  young  wife, 
"  I  shall  never  be  happy  here.  I  am  sure  my  maid  tells  Mr. 
Gervoise  all  I  do.  Oh  !  Miss  Gordon,  I  feel  helpless  and  alone 
— do  advise  me." 

"  I  cannot,"  replied  Beatrice.  "  I  wish  for  your  sake  you 
were  out  of  Carnoosie,  but  to  advise  you  is  not  in  my  power." 

"But  how  do  you  manage?"  insisted  Rosy.  "No  one 
interferes  with  you.  You  seem  free  as  air,  and  Mr.  Gervoise  is 
afraid  of  you." 

Beatrice  smiled  rather  drearily. 

"  I  wear  a  chain  round  my  ankle,"  she  said  ;  "  you  do  not 
see  it — I  scarcely  feel  it — habit  has  made  it  light  and  easy  ;  be- 
sides, I  know  how  far  to  go  ;  yet  there  are  moments  when  it  eats 
into  the  flesh,  and  I  almost  cry  out  with  the  pain.  But  habit, 
which  has  done  much,  has  taught  me  what  to  shun.  This  ex- 
perience alone  can  teach  you.  Carnoosie  is  a  noble  mansion  and 
a  fine  place,  but  there  are  traps  and  pitfalls  over  the  whole  of  it. 
I  can  walk  blindfolded  where  you  are  in  danger  every  moment. 
How  then  can  I  advise  you  ?  " 

Rosy  looked  frightened. 

"  I  shall  leave  it,"  she  said,  "  I  shall  tell  Antony  we  must  go  ; 
I  will  not  stay." 

"  Do  not  attempt  it,"  decisively  said  Beatrice. 

"Why  so?" 

"  You  would  fail,  and  failure  is  dangerous." 

"  Fail !  "  cried  Rosy.  "  I  will  leave  Carnoosie,  Miss  Gor- 
don, and  you  shall  see  it." 

She  rose,  looking  red  and  angry.  Beatrice  gently  laid  her 
hand  on  her  arm. 

"  Whatever  you  attempt,"  she  said,  "  let  it  not  be  now,  after 
leaving  me.  I  do  not  speak  for  my  sake,  but  for  your  own. 
You  would  only  defeat  your  own  ends.  Be  patient — wait  a  day 
or  two." 

Rosy  looked  gloomy. 

"  Why,  what  sort  of  a  house  is  this?"  she  asked  angrily. 

"  A  fair  house,  and  which  might  be  a  blessed  home  to  all 
within  its  walls,"  replied  Beatrice,  turning  back  to  look  at  Car- 
noosie as  it  stood,  square  and  stately  on  the  terrace,  with  its 
bright  flowers  waving  and  its  fountains  glancing  in  a  stormy  sun  ; 
"  but  what  is  there  man  will  not  mar  ?  " 


BEATRICE.  345 

Rosy  sat  down  once  more  on  the  grass,  and,  leaning  her  el- 
bow on  her  knee,  she  looked  darkly  before  her. 

"  Poor  little  thing  !  "  said  Beatrice  kindly,  and  resuming  her 
drawing,  she  added : 

"  I  said  I  would  not  advise  you,  and  yet  I  will :  be  patient 
and  be  firm."    • 

Rosy  looked  bewildered.  To  be  patient  and  firm — she  to 
whose  wishes  every  thing  had  yielded  in  her  father's  house,  and 
who  had  learned  vehemence,  but  scarcely  firmness. 

"  I  cannot,"  she  replied.  "  I  know  what  you  mean,  but  I 
cannot.  When  I  am  aggrieved,  I  must  speak  and  I  must  have 
my  way." 

"  God  help  you,  then ! "  thought  Beatrice,  but  she  said 
nothing. 

Rosy  felt  Miss  Gordon's  prudent  reserve,  and  it  offended  her. 
She  spoke  no  more  of  herself,  and  after  a  while  she  rose  and 
walked  away,  with  mistrust  in  her  heart.  Beatrice  knew  it,  and 
did  not  resent  it.  She  knew,  too,  how  Rosy's  struggle  for  liberty 
would  end,  and  she  was  even  prepared  for  bearing  the  penalty 
of  the  words  she  had  spoken.  That  same  afternoon  Beatrice  and 
Antony  met  on  the  staircase.  He  stood  still  on  seeing  her,  and 
said  insolently : 

"  So  it  is  war — is  it?  " 

Beatrice  did  not  condescend  to  reply. 

"  I  warn  you,"  he  continued,  his  voice  rising,  "  that  there 
must  be  nothing  between  my  wife  and  me — no  mischief — no  in- 
terference." 

Beatrice  looked  him  steadily  in  the  face,  and  continued  as- 
cending. He  walked  down,  muttering  sulkily.  Up-stairs  Beatrice 
found  Mr.  Gervoise. 

"  My  dear  Beatrice,"  he  said,  "  what  is  this  ?  Rosy  has  been 
complaining  to  you.  Dear  little  foolish  flighty  Rosy  !  My  dear, 
let  us  understand  one  another.  Leave  the  young  couple  to  me, 
Beatrice  ;  I  know  young  people  and  their  ways,  and  if  you  will 
be  kind  enough  not  to  meddle,  what  is  there  I  shall  not  be  happy 
to  grant  ?  " 

"  Why  are  they  both  so  much  afraid  that  she  should  talk  to 
me?  "  thought  Beatrice,  but  she  did  not  answer. 

"  Would  you  like  to  travel  in  England  with  your  dear 
mother?  "  continued  Mr.  Gervoise.  "  She  would  like  a  change. 
What  would  you  say  to  an  excursion  to  the  lakes  ?  " 

The  temptation  was  brief,  though  keen  enough.  For  Car- 
noosie  was  but  a  prison.  Oh !  it  would  be  sweet  to  be  away 
15* 


346  BEATRICE. 

somewhere,  even  though  but  for  a  while !  What  were  these 
Stones  to  her?  Had  they  not  rushed  on  their  fate,  and  how 
could  she  mend  it  now  ?  All  that  Mr.  Gervoise  asked  of  her 
was  to  remain  neutral — he  had  found  a  new  victim,  and  would 
leave  her  and  her  mother  in  peace.  But  if  these  thoughts  passed 
rapidly  through  Beatrice's  mind,  other  nobler,*  more  generous 
thoughts  also  came  with  them.  She  looked  steadily  in  Mr.  Ger- 
voise's  face,  and  said  with  a  scornful  smile  :  a 

"  Carnoosie  is  mine,  and  as  much  as  I  please  I  shall  meddle 
in  what  passes  beneath  my  roof." 

"  I  made  a  proposal,"  mildly  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  and  he 
raised  his  hand  to  his  ear  to  catch  her  answer.  Mr.  Gervoise 
had  of  late  shown  symptoms  of  deafness,  feigned  or  real. 

"  I  am  not  to  be  bought,"  replied  Beatrice  ;  "  and,  more- 
over, I  care  little  whether  the  chain  be  short  or  long." 

She  rose  as  much  as  to  say  "  our  discourse  is  ended,"  and 
Mr.  Gervoise  rose  too,  and  in  the  same  mild  and  courteous  tone 
he  said : 

"  I  am  truly  sorry,  Beatrice." 

He  left  the  room,  and  Beatrice  sat  down  again  and  sighed. 
She  felt  before  her  the  coming  of  a  long  struggle,  and  she  was 
very  weary.  N 

"What  is  that  little  pink  and  white  thing  to  me?"  she 
thought  almost  angrily,  "  that  I  should  thus  be  troubled  about 
her  ? — and  what  is  her  foolish  father  to  me  either  ?  Did  I  not 
warn  him,  and  have  I  forgotten  how  the  warning  was  received? 
I  heartily  wish  that  his  Rosy  would  leave  me  in  peace." 

She  learned  the  same  evening  that  with  Rosy  at  least  she  was 
not  likely  to  be  troubled  in  a  hurry.  She  had  gone  out  on  the 
terrace  after  dinner,  and  was  leaning  against  the  stone  balustrade, 
and  looking  down  at  the  fountains,  when  a  voice  behind  her  half 
whispered : 

"  Do  look  round,  Beatrice." 

Beatrice  looked  round,  but  with  some  scorn,  for  it  was  An- 
tony who  spoke.  He  was  standing  behind  her,  looking  at  her 
with  that  cruel  fondness  in  his  blue  eyes  which  Beatrice  had  al- 
ways hated. 

"  My  name  is  Miss  Gordon,"  she  said  haughtily. 

"And  Beatrice,"  he  persisted,  "you  are  a  true  dark  queen, 
royally  handsome." 

This  flight  of  speech  was  so  far  beyond  Antony's  reach,  that 
Beatrice  wondered  whether  it  has  been  suggested  by  his  father. 
With  open  mistrust  she  drew  away  from  the  young  man,  and 


BEATRICE.  347 

thus  perceived  little  Rosy  standing  within  two  paces  of  them  with 
a  pale  face  and  jealous  eyes.  Beatrice  indignantly  looked  at 
Antony,  who  laughed  and  went  off. 

Rosy,  too,  walked  away  in  another  direction,  alone  and  mis- 
erable no  doubt.  Beatrice  did  not  see  the  contest  or  hear  the 
quarrel,  but  she  saw  Rosy's  eyes  the  next  morning,  and  she 
knew  that  the  bird  had  beaten  its  wings  in  vain  against  the  iron 
bara  of  the  cage  in  which  the  fowler  had  placed  it. 

"  Poor  little  bird  ! "  thought  Beatrice  ;  "  I  wonder  if  it  will 
ever  sing  again. 

Thus  matters  went  on  for  a  while,  and  then  there  was  a 
change.  Mrs.  Antony  Gervoise  had  a  bright  defiant  look,  and 
went  about  the  house  with  a  buoyant  step.  Beatrice  saw  it,  and 
she  saw,  too,  that  Mr.  Gervoise  watched  his  daughter-in-law  with 
a  mocking  eye.  Observation  soon  told  Miss  Gordon  what  ailed 
Rosy.  She  was  expecting  a  letter.  Every  morning,  when  the 
post  was  due,  the  young  wife  looked  bright  and  expectant,  but 
when  the  hour  had  gone  by,  she  went  out  into  the  garden  to  hide 
her  misery.  Beatrice  could  not  bear  to  see  her  face  as  the  letter- 
bag  was  brought  in,  and  its  contents,  few  enough — for  Carnoosie 
was  a  charmed  place  that  had  little  to  do  with  the  outer  world — 
Were  distributed  to  the  other  members  of  the  family  and  she  alone 
received  nothing.  Her  anxious  eyes,  pining  in  vain  for  that 
token  of  affection,  and  the  cruel  pleasure  with  which  Antony 
and  his  father  watched  her  bitter  disappointment,  filled  Miss 
Gordon  with  pity.  Her  whole  soul  rose  within  her.  Was  she 
to  tolerate  such  things  beneath  her  roof?  "  Am  I  not  answer- 
able for  them  if  I  do  ?"  thought  Beatrice  as  she  walked  down  the 
oak  avenue.  ^'  Does  not  the  dishonour  of  such  doings  reach  me 
— I  will  not  allow  it.  My  old  Carnoosie  shall  not  be  sullied  with 
such  iniquities  whilst  it  calls  me  mistress." 

Beatrice  knew  her  ground  too  well  to  talk  to  or  to  argue  with 
Mr.  Gervoise  ;  but  she  made  an  opportunity  that  same  day  to 
meet  Rosy  in  a  solitary  spot,  and  going  up  to  her,  said  at  once : 

"  You  are  expecting  a  letter — you  will  never  get  it — yours 
never  reached.     Give  me  another,  and  I  will  post  it." 

Rosy  turned  red  and  pale. 

*'  They  dare  not,"  she  said,  "  they  dare  not  have  done  that." 

"  Poor  child  !  Give  me  a  letter,  I  say,  and  I  warrant  that 
the  answer  will  come." 

Rosy  looked  frightened. 

"  Do  you  think  I  am  safe  here  ?  "  she  whispered,  taking  Bea- 


348  BEATRICE. 

trice's  arm  and  leading  her  away  to  a  closer  and  more  covered 
spot.     "  He  threatened  to  kill  me  last  night." 

Beatrice  smiled. 

"  And  jou  believed  him,  and  he  frightened  you.  Trust  me, 
he  may  beat  you,  he  will  never  kill  you.  He  knows  the  law  too 
weU." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Rosy  with  a  deep  sigh,  "he  is  always  talking  of 
the  law,  and  it  seems  it  is  all  for  him  and  against  me  !  " 

"  Trust  to  the  law  so  far  as  your  life  is  concerned.  He  has 
neither  the  will  nor  the  daring  to  attempt  it." 

"And  do  you  think  I  can  write  a  letter,  and  be  safe  too?" 
suggested  Rosy. 

"  Why  not? "  asked  Beatrice. 

Rosy  gave  a  fearful  look  around  her,  then  pushed  up  her 
sleeve  and  bared  her  arm  ;  a  deep  purple  mark  had  imprinted  it- 
self on  the  delicate  white  flesh. 

"  He  taxed  me  with  the  letter,"  she  whispered,  covering  her 
arm  up,  "  and  dared  me  to  write  another,  and  he  did  this  !  God 
help  me  !  "  she  added,  clenching  her  two  hands,  and  looking  up 
at  that  serene  blue  sky,  which  calmly  sees  all  man's  iniquities — 
"  Grod  help  me  !  I  was  the  apple  of  my  father's  eye,  and  the  dar- 
ling of  his  heart,  and  now  I  am  beaten  so.  Oh  !  Miss  Gordon,  I 
must  die,  or  it  cannot  be  true  !  I  married  for  love  a  few  months 
ago.  It  cannot  have  come  to  this  !  What  have  I  done  !  I  only 
wished  to  please  him,  and  be  happy  with  him,  and  you  see  how 
he  uses  me  !  This  morning.  Miss  Gordon,  when  I  showed  this 
mark  to  Mr.  Gervoise,  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  his  horrid 
French  fashion,  and  answered,  his  son  had  told  him  how  I  had 
fallen  and  hurt  myself,  and  he  assured  me  with  a  smile — ^he 
smiled  his  horrible,  hateful  smile — ^he  assured  me  no  one  would 
believe  me." 

"  But  I  do — I  believe  you,  and  I  will  help  you,"  warmly  said 
Beatrice  ;  "  write  the  letter,  I  tell  you,  and  I  will  post  it." 

"  I  will,"  sobbed  the  poor  young  thing.  "  I  have  borne  it  in 
silence  as  long  as  I  could,  in  order  not  to  grieve  my  poor  dear 
father's  heart ;  but  longer  than  this  I  cannot  bear  it.  Miss  Gor- 
don.    I  cannot — I  cannot.     He  must  help  me." 

Beatrice  knew  Mr.  Gervoise  and  his  son  too  well  to  suppose 
that  even  Mr.  Stone  could  do  much  to  assist  his  daughter ;  but 
she  also  knew  that  they  hated  and  feared  exposure,  and  had 
speculated  on  her  silence.  It  was  right,  too,  he  should  know 
how  his  darling  was  treated,  and  she  said  again : 

"  Write  the  letter,  and  I  will  post  it." 


BEATEICE.  349 

"  But  when  ?  "  asked  Rosy ;  "  he  never  leaves  me  now." 

"  Well,  then,  leave  him,  and  come  to  my  room  this  after- 
noon.    No  one  will  venture  to  seek  yon  there." 

"  I  will,"  replied  Rosy  ;  "  thank  you,  Miss  Gordon.  Good- 
bye, I  think  I  see  him." 

She  nimbly  ran  down  a  path  and  vanished  in  its  green  wind- 
ings.    Beatrice  looked  after  her  with  a  thoughtful  eye. 

"Which  of  us  too  is  unlike  other  women?"  she  wondered. 
"  I  know  so  little  of  my  own  sex.  Are  we  meant  to  yield  and 
be  crushed  like  that  poor  little  Rosy  ? — or  to  resent  wrong,  and 
throwback  injury  like  Beatrice  Gordon?  Which  of  us  is  the 
right  womanly  woman?  The  gentle,  weak,  and  yielding  one,  or 
the  indignant  and  passionate  one  ?  No  matter.  Were  we  all 
born  to  be  trampled  under  foot  by  such  beings  as  Antony  Ger- 
voise  and  his  father,  I  should  still  wish  to  be  what  I  am,  to  hate 
and  oppose  him  with  all  my  might." 

It  was  the  habit  of  Beatrice  to  be  out  every  afternoon  whilst 
her  mother  slept,  but  this  day  she  stayed  within,  reading  and 
waiting  for  Rosy.  She  waited  until  she  heard  her  talking  in 
the  garden,  and  then,  concluding  she  had  been  unable  to  come, 
she  went  out.  She  found  her  at  the  foot  of  the  terrace,  walk- 
ing arm-in-arm  with  her  husband.  He  looked  very  amiable  and 
fond,  and  the  honeymoon  sweetness  had  come  back  to  his  bear- 
ing and  attitude.  Rosy  never  looked  up  as  Beatrice  passed,  but 
Antony  raised  his  eyes,  and  fastened  them  with  a  mocking  look 
on  Beatrice's  face. 

"  How  late  you  take  your  walk  to-day.  Miss  Gordon  !  "  he 
said,  significantly. 

"  How  kind  of  you  to  take  any  notice  of  my  hours  !  "  coolly 
replied  Beatrice,  and  she  walked  on,  thinking,  "  the  little  simple- 
ton has  betrayed  me." 

An  hour  later,  as  she  was  coming  in,  she  found  Rosy  waiting 
for  her  on  the  staircase. 

"  I  could  not  come,"  she  whispered. 

"  Did  you  wish  to  come?"  sadly  asked  Beatrice. 

"  He  has  promised  to  behave  better,"  replied  Rosy  with  a 
blush. 

"  Did  you  tell  him  you  were  to  come  to  me  ?  " 

"  No,  Miss  Gordon — indeed  I  did  not." 

"  Very  well — I  am  glad  you  are  happy  again,"  and  leaving 
Rosy,  she  walked  on,  and  went  into  her  mother's  room,  thinking, 
"  I  wonder  how  long  her  happiness  will  last?  " 

It  lasted  three  days,  two  more  than  Beatrice  had  expected. 


350  BEATRICE. 

On  the  morning  of  the  third,  Kosy  ran  to  her  in  the  orchard, 
overflowing  with  indignation  and  tears. 

"  I  will  write  to-day,  I  will.  He  has  behaved  dreadfully.  I 
cannot  stay  with  him.  I  told  him  so.  I  will  not  remain  with 
him  any  longer.     I  will  write  to-day.  Miss  Gordon." 

"  If  you  can,"  suggested  Beatrice,  gravely. 

Rosy  gave  her  a  piteous  look. 

"  Will  you  not  help  me  ?  " 

"  I  am  willing,  but  you  have  made  it  difficult  for  me  to  do 
so." 

Beatrice  spoke  so  seriously  that  Rosy  was  frightened. 

"  What  am  I  to  do  ?  "  she  asked,  helplessly. 

"  Nothing  to-day." 

It  rained  hard  the  next  day,  and  the  opportunity  Beatrice 
hoped  for  did  not  come,  for  it  was  out  in  the  grounds  she  meant 
Rosy's  letter  to  be  written.  The  following  day  was  as  wet  and 
gloomy  as  its  predecessor,  and,  as  Beatrice  remained  with  her 
mother,  she  did  not  see  Antony's  wife ;  but  on  the  fourth  morn- 
ing the  sun  shone  again,  and  they  met  in  the  flower-garden. 
Beatrice  was  shocked  to  see  that  Rosy  was  pale  as  death. 

"  What  ails  you?  "  she  asked  kindly. 

"  Nothing.  Pray  do  not  speak  to  me — do  not  mind  me — 
nothing  ails  me." 

Her  looks,  her  voice,  breathed  the  deepest  terror.  Without 
heeding  her  fear,  Beatrice  resolutely  took  Rosy's  arm  under  her 
own,  and  walked  openly  with  her  on  the  terrace  within  sight  of 
Mr.  Gervoise's  windows. 

"  You  do  not  know  this  house  and  these  men,"  she  said  in  a 
subdued  voice,  though  without  any  appearance  of  mystery.  "  It 
is  your  terror  that  makes  it  dangerous,  and  gives  them  strength. 
Be  fearless,  and  you  are  almost  safe.  I  can  see  you  have  been 
imprudent — writing  a  letter,  perhaps  " — here  Beatrice  felt  Rosy's 
arm   shake    on   her   own — "  and  you  have  been  detected  and 

eatened,  but  trug 

"  Miss  Gordon- 


"  Do  not  answer  me,"  quietly  said  Beatrice.  "  You  cannot 
command  your  face,  and  your  looks  would  betray  you ;  laugh, 
if  you  can — if  you  cannot,  say  nothing,  and  do  not  take  your  arm 
from  under  mine.     I  am  going  up-stairs  with  you." 

Rosy  submitted,  but,  as  Beatrice  could  see,  with  the  greatest 
fear.  They  entered  the  house  together,  and  went  up  to  Bea- 
trice's room.  At  the  door  they  found  Antony.  He  gave  his 
wife  a  significant  look,  beneath  which  she  shrank. 


BEATRICE.  351 

"  You  will  spare  me  Mrs.  Antony  Gervoise  for  awhile.  I 
want  her,"  said  Beatrice,  opening  the  door  and  going  in. 

Her  head  was  turned,  and  she  did  not  see  the  threatening  hand 
which  Antony  raised  in  his  young  wife's  face ;  but  he  did  not 
dare  to  speak ;  he  went  down,  his  sullen  countenance  overflow- 
ing with  silent  anger. 

"  He  will  kill  me  !  "  whispered  Rosy,  as  Beatrice  closed  the 
door  upon  her.  "  Oh  !  Miss  Gordon,  you  have  ruined  me — ^let 
me  go — he  will  kill  me  !  " 

"  I  will  not  use  force  to  keep  you,"  Beatrice  said  gravely ; 
"  but  unless  you  are  mad  you  will  stay." 

Rosy  wrung  her  hands,  flung  herself  on  a  sofa,  and  burst  into 
passionate  sobs  and  tears.  Beatrice  looked  at  her  thoughtfully, 
and  felt  half  inclined  to  open  the  door  and  bid  her  seek  her  fate, 
but  pity  proved  too  strong ;  the  unkind  words  could  not  be 
spoken.  She  sat  down  by  Rosy,  and,  taking  her  hand,  said  very 
gently  and  tenderly : 

"  Listen  to  me.  Rosy  ;  there  are  two  courses  open  to  you — 
patience  or  revolt.  Either  submit  to  wrong  or  repel  it  bravely, 
but  to  do  neither  will  ruin  you." 

Rosy  looked  up. 

"  Oh !  God  help  me ! "  she  said.  "  I  am  friendless  and 
alone.     God  help  me  ! " 

"  Am  1  not  your  friend?"  asked  Beatrice. 

"  No,  Miss  Gordon,  you  only  pity  me." 

"  But  I  will  be  your  ftiend,  and,  what  is  more,  I  will  help 
you.  Never,  if  I  can  prevent  it,  shall  you  be  ill-used  in  this 
house." 

Rosy  looked  up  in  ,.her  face  ;  she  read  true  and  deep  pity 
there,  and  flinging  her"  arms  around  Beatrice's  neck,  she  cried 
and  sobbed  again.  Beatrice  let  this  violent  grief  exhaust  itself; 
then,  when  Rosy's  tears  flowed  more  slowly,  and  her  sobs  had 
almost  ceased,  she  said  : 

"  You  are  married,  and  you  must  make  the  best  of  your  hard 
bargain.  But  I  know  Antony.  Generous  and  patient  forbear- 
ance will  not  win  him  to  better  behaviour — ^he  must  fear.  That 
he  liked  you,  I  have  no  doubt,  but  he  married  you  for  your 
money " 

"  No,"  interrupted  Rosy,  "  I  have  none." 

"  You  are  not  rich?"  Beatrice  exclaimed. 

"  No,  not  at  all." 

"  But  your  father  is." 

"  He  has  a  moderate  income,"  replied  Rosy. 


852  BEATRICE. 

Beatrice  looked  as  she  felt,  amazed. 

"  But  you  will  be  rich?"  she  persisted. 

"  I  hope  it  will  be  long  before  I  am,  Miss  Gordon,"  said 
Rosy,  reddening. 

Beatrice  thought  she  must  be  dreaming. 

"  I  hope  you  will  long  live  and  enjoy  Carnoosie,"  continued 
Rosy,  in  low,  hesitating  tones.  "And  surely  Antony  cannot 
have  thought  of  that  when  he  married  me — you  are  so  young." 

Beatrice  had  enough  self-control  not  to  question  her,  nor  to 
startle  her  by  one  imprudent  word,  but  she  felt  her  blood  turn- 
ing cold  in  her  veins  with  the  horror  of  an  unforeseen  danger. 
Who  was  this  young  thing  who  clung  to  her,  and  spoke  of  her 
death  and  of  Carnoosie  in  one  breath  ? 

"  Then  Stone  is  not  your  real  name?"  she  said,  smiling. 

"Didn't  you  know?"  answered  Rosy,  surprised;  "papa 
changed  it  when  he  came  back  from  Australia.  His  uncle  left 
him  the  property  he  now  has,  on  condition  that  he  should  change 
his  name  from  Carnoosie  to  Stone." 

Beatrice's  lips  felt  parched  and  dry.  This  girl  whom  she 
was  clasping  in  her  arms,  whose  tears  had  been  shed  on  her 
bosom,  was  her  mortal  though  unconscious  enemy ;  for  by  the 
tenor  of  Mr.  Carnoosie's  will,  she  was  her  heiress  if  Mr.  Morti- 
mer died  childless,  and  Mr.  Mortimer  was  unmarried,  and  in  the 
last  stage  of  disease  !  This  was  why  Mr.  Grervoise  had  plotted 
to  make  Antony  marry  a  girl  whose  dowry  was  Carnoosie. 

"  He  will  poison  me,"  thought  Beatrice. 

"  Poor,  poor  dear  papa  ! "  sighed  Rosy.  "  Oh  !  Miss  Gor- 
don, what  trouble  he  has  gone  through !  Mamma  thought  he 
was  dead  and  married  again,  and  she  was  dead  as  well  as  my 
little  brother  when  papa  came  back  and  took  me,  and  I  have 
been  with  him  ever  since.  Oh !  Miss  Gordon,  how  he  does  love 
me  !  "     Her  tears  flowed  again  at  the  thought. 

"  Poor  little  Rosy,"  softly  said  Beatrice,  "  it  shall  make  no 
difference,  it  shall  make  no  difference,"  and  she  kissed  her  ten- 
derly. 

"What?"  asked  Rosy. 

But  Beatrice's  answer  was  a  smile. 

"  Antony  wants  to  subdue  you — ^that  is  his  plan,  or  rather 
his  father's,"  she  said.     "  Well — he  shall  not  prevail." 

"  He  wants  to  break  my  spirit,"  replied  Rosy,  "  he  told  me 
so  this  morning.     '  I  will  break  your  spirit,  my  lady,'  he  said." 

Beatrice's  lip  curled  with  scorn.  This  was  the  man  who  had 
dared  to  think  of  marrying  her. 


BEATRICE.  353 

"  How  did  he  come  to  say  this?"  she  asked  ;  "  you  wrote  to 
your  father — tell  me  all.     I  shall  not  be  offended." 

"  I  did  write  to  him  yesterday.  Antony  was  with  his  father 
— at  least  I  thought  so,  and  I  wrote." 

"  Did  you  tell  him  I  had  offered  to  post  your  letter?" 

Rosy  was  silent. 

"  And  he  came  and  found  you  and  took  it  from  you,  and  read 
it,"  said  Beatrice  ;  "  poor  little  Rosy ! " 

Rosy  looked  at  her. 

"  Miss  Gordon,  what  do  you  think  he  did?  He  said  to  me — 
'  So  you  have  been  writing  to  your  father  that  I  beat  you,  and 
that  the  mark  is  not  quite  gone  !  Well — I  shall  manage  better 
now  ! '  And  so  he  did.  Miss  Gordon.  He  did  not  beat  me,  and 
he  left  no  marks,  but  he  locked  the  door,  and  he  worried  me  as 
his  dogs  worry  game,  until  I  felt  half  mad.  And  when  he  had 
done  with  me,  and  I  was  crying  my  heart  out,  he  laughed  at  me, 
and  called  me  shameful  names.  And  I  hate  him  !"  cried  Rosy, 
her  blue  eyes  flashing,  "  I  do  ! " 

"  And  you  fear  him,"  said  Beatrice,  "  and  he  has  forbidden 
you  to  speak  to  me." 

Rosy  looked  piteous. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  *'  and  pray  do  not  talk  to  me  opposite 
him — pray  do  not,  Miss  Gordon." 

Her  scared  look,  her  clasped  hands,  spoke  of  terror  strong 
and  deep. 

"What  ami  to  say?"  replied  Beatrice,  gently;  "he  may 
ill-use  you,  he  never  will  injure  you,  and  it  is  your  fear  makes 
him  strong.  He  wants  you,  child,  your  death  would  be  his 
greatest  misfortune  ;  but  if  he  can  convince  you  that  you  are  in 
danger,  what  am  I  to  say?  Submit  then,  bear  your  fate,  and  do 
not  write  to  your  father — do  not  speak  to  me." 

Rosy  looked  helpless. 

"  Advise  me.  Miss  Gordon,"  she  entreated. 

Beatrice  rose  sadly. 

"  You  Avant  no  advice,"  she  said  ;  "  your  mind  is  made  up  ; 
you  will  not  write — ^you  will  not  speak  to  me.  Go,  child,  I  am 
not  angry  with  you,  and  whenever  you  want  me,  remember  I 
am  willing  and  ready." 

She  kissed  Rosy  as  she  spoke,  and  opened  the  door ;  and 
Rosy,  crest-fallen,  but  glad  at  heart  to  have  escaped  Miss  Gor- 
don's dangerous  protection,  glided  out  of  her  room. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

"  And  now,"  thought  Beatrice,  locking  her  door,  "  what  of 
me?" 

She  sat  down,  and  pressing  her  head  between  her  two  hands, 
she  read  the  past  as  in  a  book.  Why  Mr.  Stone  had  taken 
Antony's  cottage  was  not  clear  to  her  yet.  Mr.  Gervoise  had 
been  deceived  in  this  ;  he  had  let  it  to  a  stranger,  and  no  doubt 
it  was  on  Teaming  who  that  stranger  was  that  he  had  fallen  into 
a  fit.  Mr.  Stone  was  the  heir-at-law,  and,  by  Mr.  Carnoosie's 
will,  his  daughter,  for  his  son  had  been  excluded,  came  into  the 
property  after  Beatrice  and  Mr.  Mortimer  should  either  die  child- 
less. Mr.  Gervoise  had  probably  thought  that  Mr.  Stone  would 
attack  the  will ;  hence  his  dismay  on  learning  that  he  lived. 
But  how  soon  the  serpent  had  turned  this  knowledge  to  good 
account.  If  Mr.  Stone  had  meant  aught  against  Beatrice,  the 
retribution  had  been  severe.  His  daughter  had  been  stolen  from 
him,  and  his  weapon  of  strength  was  now  in  the  hand  of  his 
enemy:  If  he  were  ten  times  to  wrest  her  inheritance  from 
Beatrice,  would  not  that  inheritance  go  to  the  traitor  who  had 
robbed  him  of  his  child  ? 

Beatrice  almost  shuddered  as  she  traced  back  Mr.  Gervoise's 
plans.  She  understood  now  what  Gilbert  meant  when  he  asked 
if  his  father  had  a  hold  upon  her  ;  what  he  feared  when  he  wrote 
to  her,  "  If  ever  you  want  a  friend  send  for  me."  The  instinct 
of  love  had  warned  him  of  that  danger  invisible  to  her  eyes, 
but  perceptible  to  his  view,  even  though  he  could  not  guess  its 
nature. 

That  was  why,  then,  Mr.  Gervoise  would  not  let  her  marry. 
Of  course  not — for  her  marriage  meant  his  ruin,  if  her  mother 
died. 

No,  she  must  live  alone,  to  preserve  to  his  son  that  inher- 
itance for  which  he  had  sinned  so  deeply. 

"  I  wonder  they  did  not  forbid  Kosy  to  tell  me,"  thought 
Beatrice  ;  "  I  suppose  they  did  not  dare  to  betray  their  evil  intent 


BEATRICE.  355 

SO  far.  Poor  little  innocent !  she  little  suspects  that  she 'is  death 
to  me  !  I  wonder  when  they  mean  to  do  it,  for  they  will  surely 
never  wait  till  nature  rids  them  of  me.  I  am  so  young,  as  Rosy 
says.  Whilst  Mr.  Mortimer  lives  I  am  safe,  for  he  is  my  heir. 
When  he  dies ^" 

She  did  not  finish  the  sentence  even  in  her  own  thoughts, 
for  she  caught  sight  of  her  startled  face  in  the  glass  before  her. 
How  pale  and  terrified  it  looked  ! — what  a  shadow  of  death 
seemed  to  have  settled  upon  it  in  Beatrice's  eyes  ! 

"And  must  I  die — must  I  submit  to  this?"  she  thought, 
clenching  her  hands  with  passionate  despair  ;  "  must  I  sit  and 
await  death  in  my  own  house,  as  the  Roman  senator  sat  and 
awaited  it  in^  his  curule  chair  when  the  Gaul  invaded  Rome  ? 
]Must  I  harbour  these  my  mortal  enemies  ?  I  have  but  to  bid 
them  depart,  and  they  must  go.  I  have  but  to  marry  Gilbert, 
and  I  am  safe  for  ever.  Oh !  if  he  were  here,  if  I  could  but 
tell  him  my  deadly  peril,  would  he  forsake  me  again?" 

But,  alas  !  what  availed  these  thoughts  ?  She  could  not  tell 
Gilbert,  "  Your  father  and  your  brother  are  in  a  conspiracy  to 
take  my  life."  There  was  but  one  alternative  before  her,  and  that 
was  to  bid  Mr.  Gervoise,  his  son,  and  his  daughter-in-law  leave 
her  house.  This  she  could  do,  but  to  do  it  was  to  turn  out  her 
mother  too — worse,  far  worse,  it  was  to  deliver  her  to  the  fate 
of  little  Rosy — to  a  life  of  daily  torment. 

"  After  all,  I  am  safe  while  Mr.  Mortimer  lives,"  thought 
Beatrice,  "  it  will  be  time  enough  to  think  of  myself  when  he 
dies." 

But  the  life  of  that  Mr.  Mortimer  whom  she  had  never  seen, 
about  whom  she  never  thought,  and  which  an  hour  before  had 
had  so  little  value  in  her  eyes,  now  became  infinitely  precious. 
At  once  she  wrote  to  Mr.  Lamb,  and  having  posted  her  letter 
herself,  and  secured  the  means  of  receiving  his  reply  safely,  she 
felt  more  calm. 

At  the  end  of  a  week,  Mr.  LamVs  answer  came.  Mr. 
Mortimer  was  at  Torquay,  and  his  medical  man  did  not  expect 
him  to  live  beyond  the  autumn. 

Beatrice  called  for  this  letter  at  her  banker's  in  the  neigh- 
bouring assize  town,  and,  as  she  drove  home,  she  tore  it  to  pieces 
and  threw  the  fragments  out  of  the  carriage  window.  She  was 
safe  until  winter,  but  after  that  time  what  would  become  of  her  ? 
She  knew  her  step-father  suspected  and  watched  her,  and  that 
the  desperate  game  both  meant  to  play  had  already  begun  in  good 
earnest.     For,  though  Beatrice  had  not  determined  how  to  act 


356  BEATRICE; 

when  Mr.  Mortimer  died,  she  had  resolved  to  have  a  hard  battle 
for  her  threatened  life  and  liberty. 

Miss  Gordon  was  now  too  much  absorbed  in  the  new  fear 
which  had  come  over  here  life  to  think  much  of  Rosy's  concerns. 
Moreover,  Rosy  had  rejected  her  aid — how  could  she  interfere  ? 
True,  the  young  wife  looked  very  sad  and  low.  Antony  had  said 
that  he  would  break  her  spirit,  and  Beatrice  feared  he  had 
kept  his  word  but  too  truly.  But  she  saw  nothing  to  cavil  at. 
Mr.  Gervoise  was  paternal  and  Antony  was  affectionate,  and  if 
Rosy  was  listless,  it  no  doubt  was  because,  as  her  husband  had 
said,  she  was  out  of  health.  Doctor  Rogerson  prescribed  ass's 
milk,  and  Rosy  took  it  regularly  every  morning. 

Beatrice's  conscience  beg^n  to  sting  her.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  Rosy  was  dying  slowly  before  her  eyes,  and  that  she  passive- 
ly abetted  Antony's  crime  by  not  interfering.  "  Would  Gilbert 
have  done  that  ? "  she  thought.  And  at  once  came  the  reply, 
"  Oh  !  no,  never." 

That  same  day  she  met  her  alone  in  the  dining-room.  Rosy 
stood  in  one  of  the  deep  windows,  looking  out  with  her  sad  face 
close  to  the  panes.  Beatrice  gently  laid  her  hand  on  the 
shoulder  of  Antony's  wife  and  asked  her  how  she  felt. 

"  Very  well,  thank  you,"  calmly  replied  Rosy,  and  without 
showing  any  of  the  old  terror. 

"  You  do  not  look  well." 

"  Oh  !  I  shall  soon  be  better." 

"  Would  you  like  to  write  to  your  father?  " 

"  I  write  every  week." 

"  And  he  sees  the  letter?" 

Rosy  nodded. 

"And  you  write  that  you  are  well  and  happy?  " 

Rosy  did  not  reply,  but  her  look  said,  "  And  so  I  am — it  will 
soon  be  over,  you  know." 

Tears  rose  to  Beatrice's  eyes. 

"  I  said  I  would  not  act  unless  you  asked  me,"  she  said, 
"  but  I  will — your  father  shall  come  and  see  you." 

Rosy's  face  lit  for  a  moment,  then  fell  again. 

"Where  is  the  use?"  she  sighed.  "Oh!  Miss  Gordon,  I 
can  bear  it  and  not  trouble  him.  Antony  does  not  worry  me 
much  now,  and  I  feel  half-asleep.  I  shall  go  out  of  life,  I  think, 
as  if  I  had  taken  opium,  and  I  can  bear  that.  It  was  the  violent 
death  that  made  such  a  coward  of  me." 

"  Rely  upon  me,"  said  Beatrice,  "  and  hope." 

She   spoke   confidently.     Rosy  looked   up  in  her  face  and 


BEATRICE.  35Y 

smiled,  but  very  listlessly.  Hope  was  dead,  or  had  fled  on  faith- 
less wings  far  beyond  her  ken.  But  Beatrice  was  resolved  now 
upon  interference,  and  interfere  she  did  to  some  purpose,  as  Mr. 
Gervoise  found  two  days  later.  In  his  darkened  face  Beatrice 
read  the  result  of  the  step  she  had  taken.  It  was  not  to  his 
daughter-in-law  that  Mr.  Gervoise  showed  his  displeasure  ;  for 
once  he  dealt  with  Beatrice,  whom  he  now  seldom  attacked,  and 
requested  her  presence  in  his  study. 

"  Beatrice,"  he  said  to  her,  with  solemn  gravity,  "  are  we  at 
peace  ?  " 

Beatrice  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  played  with  the  tassels 
of  a  long  girdle  which  she  wore,  and  requested  him  to  speak 
more  plainly. 

"  You  know  my  meaning  quite  well,"  austerely  replied  Mr. 
Gervoise.  "  That  little  foolish  daughter-in-law  of  mine  has 
been  writing  to  her  father,  who  has  honoured  me  with  an  indig- 
nant letter,  and  who  is  coming  back  to  the  cottage  to-morrow. 
Now,  she  can  only  have  done  this  through  your  agency,  and  this 
is  what  I  complain  of.  You  meddle  in  my  family  concerns. 
Beatrice,  I  ask  again,  are  we  at  peace  ?  " 

"  As  you  please,"  answered  Beatrice. 

"  Beatrice,  I  will  not  be  trifled  with.  Rose  is  a  good  child — 
a  very  good  child ;  but  she  has  been  a  spoiled  child,  and  we  can- 
not go  on  spoiling  her." 

"  There  is  not  much  fear  of  that." 

"  I  entreat  you  not  to  meddle  with  her  ;  you  might  repent 
it,"  said  Mr.  Gervoise  grandly. 

Beatrice  raised  her  young  haughty  head,  and  fastened  her 
bright  defiant  eyes  full  on  his  face. 

"  Do  your  worst,"  she  said.  "  I  am  vulnerable  on  one  point 
only,  my  mother,  and  there  I  defy  you.  I  am  of  age,  my  own 
mistress,  and  mistress  of  this  house,  too.  Attempt  to  torment 
her,  and  you  and  yours  leave  Carnoosie  that  moment.  You 
have  the  power  of  making  her  wretched,  you  have  not  that  of 
making  me  look  on.  There  I  escape  you.  I  will  never  see  it, 
Mr.  Gervoise.  I  know  I  am  buying  peace  very  dear.  For  it  I 
give  up  liberty,  independence,  marriage,  and  the  enjoyment  of 
my  own,  but  do  not  suppose  I  will  pay  the  price  and  not  have 
my  fuU  value.  Attempt  to  cheat,  and  the  bargain  is  at  an  end, 
and  we  part." 

"  My  dear  Beatrice,"  said  her  step-father,  amazed,  "  how 
can  you  wrong  me  so  far  as  to  think  that  your  dear  mother's  hap- 
piness is  not  the  chief  object  of  my  life  ?     But  what  has  it  to  do 


368  BEATRICE. 

with  Mrs.  Antony  Gervoise's  insubordination  ?  Her  husband  is 
not  happy.  She  will  not  obey  his  most  gently-uttered  commands, 
and  now,  to  make  bad  worse,  she  writes  off  to  her  father,  who  is 
coming  here  to  have  a  quarrel  Avith  her  husband,  I  suppose." 

"  Sir.  Gervoise,  what  have  I  to  do  with  that?" 

"  You  posted  her  letter." 

"  Would  it  not  have  reached  without  my  posting?  Is  she  a 
prisoner  ?  Are  the  servants  such  traitors  that  they  would  sell 
their  duty  to  the  highest  bidder,  and  betray  the  poor  young 
thing?" 

"  Beatrice,  you  posted  that  letter." 

Beatrice  rose.  The  blood  rushed  up  to  her  clear  brow,  and 
her  lips  quivered  with  generous  indignation. 

"  I  wrote  it,  Mr.  Gervoise,"  she  said. 

"  You  ! — you  ! "  he  repeated,  astounded  at  the  audacious  con- 
fession. 

"  Yes,  I  indeed.  And  did  you  think  I  could  go  on  and  see  her 
slow  torture,  and  be  silent  ?  Did  you  think  that  was  in  my  nature  ? 
Poor  little  victim,  she  would  not  have  written,  she  would  have 
died  uncomplaining ;  but  I  wrote  to  her  father,  I  told  him  the 
usage  his  darling  had  got,  and  the  iron  rod  under  which  she 
lived,  and  he  is  coming  to  see  and  judge  for  himself,  and  to  give 
her  at  least  the  consolation  of  his  presence." 

For  once  Mr.  Gervoise  lost  his  composure ;  he  turned  pale 
with  passion,  raised  a  trembling  hand  and  shook  it  at  Bea- 
trice. 

"  Do  not  meddle,  madam,"  he  said  warningly,  "  do  not 
meddle." 

"  Carnoosie  is  mine,"  haughtily  replied  Beatrice  ;  and  thus 
disclaiming  the  possibility  of  meddling  in  her  own  house,  she  left 
the  room,  followed  to  the  door  by  Mr.  Gervoise's  thi-eatening  eye. 
Beatrice  looked  brave  and  careless,  but  she  was  troubled  at 
heart.  She  did  not  and  would  not  yield  ;  but  then  she  knew  this 
man,  and  to  know  him  was  to  wish  avoiding  any  contest  with 
one  so  remorseless  and  so  dangerous.  The  long  truce  was  broken, 
and  what  revenge  would  he  not  take,  for  revenge  he  must  have, 
Beatrice  knew  that  too. 

"  Poor  little  foolish  Rosy  !"  she  thought,  "  ill-fated  was  the 
day  that  brought  you  here  to  this  Carnoosie,  which  looks  so 
bright  and  fair,  and  is  more  gloomy  than  Mrs.  Radcliffe's 
Udolpho.  There  the  outward  monument  told  of  the  treason 
within  ;  here  this  smiling  sky,  the  bright  flowers,  the  fountains, 
the  cheerful  rooms,  are  tokens  of  a  happy,  honoured,  and  peace- 


BEATEICE.  359 

ful  dwellingT  Oh !  Carnoosie,  my  own  Carnoosie !  shall  you 
ever  be  my  own  really,  my  stainless  home,  where  I  can  live  a 
happy  wife,  with  children  around  me?     Never  ! — ^never  !" 

She  sat  down,  sad,  disheartened,  and  depressed,  in  the  library 
which  she  had  entered,  and  then  a  voice  spoke  within  her,  a  pure 
and  holy  voice  that  sounded  like  Gilbert's,  the  voice  of  sacrifice 
and  duty. 

"  Happiness,  liberty,  love,  and  its  blessings  are  not  the  only 
end  of  life.  There  is  another,  nobler,  purer,  better  by  far — duty. 
Can  you  buy  peace  by  forsaking  that  poor  little  thing  who  is  liv- 
ing beneath  your  roof — a  lamb  between  two  wolves  ?  You  can- 
not— ^you  cannot.  Better  perish  and  die  with  all  you  love  best 
than  be  such  a  coward." . 

That  same  afternoon  Mr.  Stone,  who  had  arrived  in  the  cot- 
tage an  hour  before,  entered  Carnoosie,  and  asked  to  speak  to 
its  mistress.  In  vain  had  Beatrice  endeavoured  to  alter  some 
matters  since  she  was  of  age.  Her  new  housekeeper  was  both 
zealous  and  honest,  but  the  inferior  servants  were  still  Mr.  Ger- 
voise's  paid  spies.  Beatrice  knew  it,  and  only  submitted  be- 
cause she  had  no  hope  of  procuring  others  more  incorruptible. 
Her  commands,  however,  were  never  openly  violated,  and  though 
Mr.  Stone  was  scarcely  at  the  gate  before  two  zealous  menials 
informed  Mr.  Antony  Gervoise  of  the  fact — Mr.  Gervoise  was 
out  for  the  day — his  request  to  speak  to  Miss  Gordon  was  at 
once  transmitted  to  her. 

Beatrice  was  reading  aloud  to  her  mother  when  the  door 
opened,  and  Mrs.  Gervoise's  maid  delivered  Mr.  Stone's  message 
in  her  glib  voice,  and  with  her  demure  look. 

''  Mr.  Stone ! "  faltered  Mrs.  Gervoise,  frightened  to  hear  a 
name  that  sounded  as  an  omen  of  coming  woe.  Beatrice  raised 
a  warning  finger.  She  sat  with  her  back  to  the  door,  near 
which  BrowTison  still  stood  respectfully ;  but  she  faced  a  large 
mirror,  in  which  the  girl,  whose  eyes  saw  every  thing,  perceived 
both  the  significant  gesture  and  the  expressive  look  that  accom- 
panied it. 

"  Show  Mr.  Stone  into  the  library,"  quietly  said  Beatrice, 
"  and  say  I  am  going  down." 

"  Very  well,  ma'am,"  and  the  demure  Brownson  vanished  as 
if  to  hear  were  to  obey.  The  door  hkd  scarcely  closed  upon 
her  when  Mrs.  Gervoise  exclaimed : 

''  Beatrice,  you  are  meddling  in  the  concerns  of  these  people." 

''  Yes,  darling,  I  am,  but  you  are  safe." 

"  But  you,  Beatrice — ^you ! " 


360  BEATRICE. 

"  Oh !  I  shall  have  a  battle  or  two,"  replied  Beatrice  care- 
lessly, "  and  then  it  will  be  over." 

"  I  wish  we  never  had  seen  that  girl,"  almost  passionately 
cried  Mrs.  Gervoise. 

''And  so  do  I;  for,  darling,  I  do  long  for  peace,  you  will 
never  know  how  deeply.  But  do  not  look  at  me  so  ;  it  is  too 
late  ;  and,  moreover,  I  should  do  what  I  am  doing,  or  be  a  shame- 
ful coward.  Do  not  be  afraid,  my  darling,  and  let  me  go  to  Mr. 
Stone.  He  is  waiting,  and  I  daresay  I  shall  be  some  time  with 
him.  He  will  be  full  of  his  grief,  poor  man,  and  I  shall  have  to 
listen.'* 

Beatrice  remained  an  hour  away,  and  to  Mrs.  Gervoise 
never  had  an  hour  seemed  so  slow  aud  so  wearisome  as  this. 
She  gave  her  daughter  an  anxious  look  when  she  returned ;  but 
Beatrice's  eyes  shunned  hers. 

"  Well,"  at  length  said  Mrs.  Gervoise. 

"Well,"  replied  Beatrice,  "he  asked  to  see  his  daughter, 
and  Antony  sent  word  that  Mrs.  Antony  Gervoise  had  a  bad 
headache  and  could  not  come." 

"  And  what  will  you  do,  Beatrice? " 

"  Do  not  ask  me,  darling.  You  cannot  then  be  compelled  to 
teU." 

" Beatrice  !  Beatrice  !  how  will  all  this  end?" 

Beatrice  laid  her  head  on  Mrs.  Gervoise's  lap.  She  looked 
out  through  the  window  at  the  sky  flushed  with  crimson  and 
gold,  at  the  deep,  solemn-looking  trees,  at  the  cool  dewy  earth 
over  which  blue  evening  shadows  were  softly  steaHng,  and,  clasp- 
ing her  mother's  waist,  she  said : 

"  Oh  !  darling,  if  we  could  only  be  away  somewhere  together 
out  of  all  this  weariness,  I  should  be  happy — somewhere  on  this 
earth  or  within  it — I  should  not  care." 

"  You  want  to  die,  Beatrice  ?  " 

"  No,  darling ;  but  I  want  peace,"  and  within  her  Beatrice 
felt  a  great  cry — a  longing  and  a  passion  that  seemed  to  say, 
"  Oh !  Gilbert,  Gilbert,  why  have  you  forsaken  me  ?  " 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

With  mingled  amazement  and  indignation  did  Mr.  Get 
voise  learn  the  next  day  that  Antony  had  refused  to  let  his  wife 
see  her  father. 

"  But  did  you  not  tell  me  I  was  to  prevent  them  from  meet- 
ing?" said  Antony. 

"  To  prevent,  but  not  to  refuse.  You  will  ruin  aU  if  you  go 
on  so.  On  learning  that  Mr.  Stone  was  in  the  house,  you  should 
have  taken  a  drive,  or,  if  need  be,  a  journey  with  your  wife." 

"  You  said  she  was  not  to  go  out,"  urged  Antony. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  affectionately  said  his  father,  ''  if  you  apply 
my  advice  to  the  letter,  you  had  better  never  take  it." 

Antony,  rather  crestfallen,  asked  what  he  should  do  now. 
Mr.  Ger voise  answered  that  since,  instead  of  taking  Rosy  away, 
and  throwing  Mr.  Stone  off  the  scent,  he  had  been  so  injudicious 
as  to  confess  a  knowledge  of  his  presence,  the  only  thing  he 
could  do  now  would  be  to  make  Rosy  call  on  her  father. 

"  Suppose  she  should  not  come  back?"  suggested  Antony. 

Mr.  Gervoise  smiled,  and  said  mildly : 

"  There  is  no  fear  of  that  this  morning." 

Nor  was  there.  Rosy  went  joyous  and  eager,  as  Antony  saw 
with  jealous  displeasure  ;  but  she  did  return,  and  when  Beatrice 
haughtily  informed  Mr.  Antony  Gervoise  that  she  would  trouble 
him  not  to  turn  Carnoosie  into  a  prison,  he  pointed  to  his  wife, 
who  was  even  then  coming  in,  and  said  quietly : 

"  Why,  there  she  is,  Miss  Gordon." 

But  was  this  Rosy  indeed  ?  She  had  a  colour  now,  and  a  res- 
olute, defiant  look,  too,  that  struck  Beatrice. 

"  You  look  well  to-day,"  she  said  to  her. 

"  I  am  both  well  and  strong,"  replied  Rosy. 

Her  tone  was  a  declaration  of  war.     Rosy  sat  down  to  din- 
ner with  the  same  cool  and  deliberate  mien.     She  contradicted 
Mr.  Gervoise  twice  during  the  meal,  and  disdained  answering 
her  husband's  sneers.     Even  Beatrice  could  scarcely  get  a  civil 
16 


362  BEATKIOE. 

reply  from  her-.  She  seemed  excitable,  and  as  wild  as  a  youug 
bird  which  has  just  got  back  its  lost  liberty.  When  dinner  was 
over,  and  she  followed  Beatrice  out  of  the  room,  Miss  Gordon 
said  to  her,  as  she  closed  the  door  : 

"  Take  care — do  not  go  too  far." 

Rosy  smiled  disdainfully. 

"  I  am  not  afraid  of  them,"  she  said.  "  Both  father  and  son 
will  find  that  they  can  no  longer  trample  upon  me  now,  and  I 
will  not  stay  here.  Why  should  I  be  living  in  another  person's 
house  ?  " 

Beatrice  smiled  half  sadly.  Rosy  spoke  like  a  child,  as  she 
was.  She  felt  strong  now,  and  her  dead-like  submission  had 
vanished  with  her  father's  return  ;  but  Beatrice  had  noticed  An- 
tony's black  looks,  and  Mr.  Gervoise's  observant  eye,  during 
dinner  time,  and  she  knew  the  fowler's  net  was  spread.  The 
evening  was  very  close  and  sultry,  and  Beatrice  and  her  mother 
sat  with  the  windows  wide  open.  They  could  hear  voices  in  the 
garden  below,  and  Beatrice  distinguished  among  them  Rosy's 
laugh.  It  was  loud,  but  to  Beatrice  it  sounded  hollow  and 
forced. 

"Beatrice,  what  are  you  thinking  of?"  asked  her  mother, 
and  Beatrice,  who  was  still  listening  to  the  voices  below,  did  not 
reply.     Mr.  Gervoise  was  saying : 

"  You  really  must  oblige  me,  my  dear  boy,  by  going  off  on 
that  business  for  mp.  Pray  go 'to-night.  What  is  a  journey  to 
London  at  your  time  of  life  ?  " 

With  an  oath  Antony  vowed  he  would  not  stir,  for  respect 
toward  his  parent  was  not  his  failing.  But  still  Mr.  Gervoise 
persisted.  In  a  clear  and  distinct  voice,  very  unusual  in  him, 
he  pressed  his  son  to  leave  by  the  express  train. 

*'  You  will  be  back  to-morrow  by  twelve,  you  know,"  he  per- 
suasively added;  "and  this  business  at  the  bank  is  really  im- 
portant." 

Now  secrecy  in  all  its  branches  was  an  art  most  carefully 
cultivated  by  Mr.  Gervoise.  This  allusion  to  the  bank  struck 
Beatrice  as  a  trap.  It  was  incredible  to  her  that  he  should  dis- 
cuss a  private  matter  on  the  terrace  within  the  hearing  of  Rosy, 
of  herself  and  her  mother,  and  even  of  the  servants.  "  He  means 
something,  assuredly  he  does,"  she  thought;  "but  what  is  it?" 
How  the  argument  between  Mr.  Gervoise  and  his  son  ended  she 
did  not  know,  for  they  entered  the  house  together,  and  arousing 
herself,  Beatrice  answered  her  mother's  renewed  inquiry : 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of,  Beatrice  ?  " 


.  BEATKICE.  363 

"  I  am  thinking  it  is  very  strange  that  Mr.  Gervoise  should 
talk  so  loud  on  the  terrace." 

The  words  had  scarcely  passed  her  lips  when  the  door  opened, 
and  Mr.  Gervoise  entered  the  room. 

"  Well,  my  love,  and  how  are  you?"  he  kindly  asked,  sitting 
down  by  his  wife — "  how  are  you  this  evening?  " 

It  so  happened  that  Mrs.  Gervoise  was  irritable  this  evening, 
and  she  replied  with  some  asperity : 

"I  should  be  better,  Mr.  Gervoise,  if  I  had  a  change." 

"  My  love,  where  would  you  like  to  go?" 

"  To  Switzerland,  Mr.  Gervoise." 

"  Then,  my  dear,  we  shall  consult  Dr.  Rogerson  to-morrow 
morning,  and  if  he  advises  Switzerland,  to  Switzerland  you  shall 

"  My  poor  darling,"  thought  Beatrice,  "  you  will  never  see  a 
Swiss  mountain." 

But  Mrs.  Gervoise,  who  only  knew  that  Dr.  Rogerson  had  ad- 
vised the  French  sea-coast,  felt  sanguine  that  he  would  also  advise 
the  Jura  and  Mont  Blanc.  Her  spirits  rose  ;  she  had  not  been 
so  cheerfal  for  many  days,  and  most  complacently  her  husband 
helped  her  on  with  the  delusion.  Beatrice  felt  too  indignant  to  stay 
and  listen.  She  rose  and  went  to  the  window.  The  night  was 
dark  and  still.  She  heard,  however,  unusual  sounds  toward  the 
gates  of  Carnoosie — the  grinding  of  wheels  on  the  gravel  of  the 
avenue,  it  seemed  to  her.  She  turned  round  toward  Mr.  Ger- 
voise, and  said  sharply : 

"  Who  is  leaving  the  house  to-night?" 

"  Antony,  I  suppose,"  replied  Mr.  Gervoise. 

Beatrice  went  swiftly  to  the  door.  Mr.  Gervoise  rose  and 
tried  to  stop  her. 

''Beatrice,  what  is  it?  what  do  you  want?"  he  asked. 

"  To  see  if  Antony  is  going,"  she  replied  ;  "  pray  don't  delay 
me,"  and  her  tone  was  so  imperative  that  Mr.  Gervoise  drew 
back  and  let  her  pass. 

Beatrice  probably  felt  no  doubt  concerning  Antony's  depar- 
ture, for  instead  of  going  down,  she  ran  up-stairs  until  she  stood 
at  the  door  of  Rosy's  room.  She  knocked,  and  receiving  no  re- 
ply, she  entered.  A  light  was  burning  on  the  table.  Beatrice 
gave  a  rapid  look  around  ;  the  room  was  vacant — more,  it  was 
in  confusion  of  Rosy's  making,  for  the  drawers  had  been  almost 
emptied  of  their  contents,  which  had  been  thrown  on  the  floor  in 
wild  haste.  Beatrice  knew  where  Rosy  kept  her  jewel-box  ;  she 
looked,  and  saw  that  it  was  gone.     Alas !  there  was  no  doubt 


364:  BEATRICE. 

about  it !  She  had  fallen  blindly  into  the  trap  set  for  her.  The 
foolish  bird,  seeing  the  door  of  its  cage  open,  had  taken  flight. 

"  K  I  could  only  reach  the  cottage  in  time  ! "  thought  Bea- 
trice. She  did  not  hesitate,  but  went  down  to  her  room,  threw  a 
cloak  around  her,  and  without  asking  for  John,  left  the  house, 
crossed  the  grounds,  and  entered  the  forest.  She  walked  fast ; 
the  dark  night,  the  solitary  forest,  did  not  stop  her.  At  length 
^ts  outskirts  were  crossed,  and  in  the  plain  beyond  she  looked  for 
the  light  of  Mr.  Stone's  cottage.  Her  heart  sank  to  find  every 
thing  dark.  "  Too  late  ! — too  late  !  "  cried  the  voice  of  a  secret 
but  sure  presentiment.  And  alas,  it  was  too  late  !  When  Bea- 
trice reached  the  cottage  and  knocked,  the  old  woman  who  an- 
swered her  summons  informed  her  that  Mr.  Stone  and  his  daugh- 
ter were  just  gone  to  see  Mr.  Stone's  dying  mother. 

"  Poor  little  thing  !  "  thought  Beatrice,  turning  away,  "  she 
will  pay  very  dear  for  that  glimpse  of  liberty." 

She  took  the  long  and  safe  route  to  go  home.  When  she  en- 
tered her  mother's  room,  she  found  Mr.  Gervoise  still  sitting 
there.  As  she  opened  the  door,  she  looked  at  him  with  a  keen 
searching  eye  ;  but  Mr.  Gervoise  sat  with  his  hands  folded  on  his 
knees,  and  his  lids  all  but  veiling  his  eyes. 

"  He  looks  like  a  cat  half  asleep,"  thought  Beatrice  ;  "  I  see  ; 
he  will  know  and  perceive  nothing.  Mrs.  Antony  Gervoise  may 
follow  her  own  will  and  pleasure — Mr.  Gervoise  knew  nothing. 
He  was  in  his  wife's  room  enjoying  that  domestic  life  which  is  so 
much  after  his  own  heart — ^he  is  innocent.  Poor  little  foolish 
Rosy!"  ^     ' 

To  all  appearance  young  Mrs.  Gervoise  was  not  missed  the 
next  morning.  In  vain  did  Beatrice  listen  for  sounds  of  alarm 
or  exclamations  of  dismay.  The  house  was  as  quiet  as  usual ; 
the  servants  went  about  their  every-day  tasks,  and  Mr.  Gervoise, 
after  lounging  in  bed,  smoked  a  cigar  on  the  terrace. 

When  Beatrice  and  he  met  at  breakfast,  she  look  significantly 
at  Posy's  vacant  chair ;  but  Mr.  Gervoise's  lids  were  down,  and 
he  saw  nothing.     Beatrice  questioned  him  openly.     She  asked : 

"  Is  Mrs.  Antony  Gervoise  unwell?" 

"  I  trust  not,"  paternally  replied  Mr.  Gervoise,  "  you  know 
of  course  that  she  went  off  with  her  husband  ?  " 

"  Ah !  what  a  dreary  comedy  it  is ! "  thought  Beatrice  ; 
"  that  man  knows  I  went  to  Mr.  Stone's  cottage  last  night,  and  I 
know  that  he  helped  little  Posy's  flight,  and  here  we  are  question- 
ing and  answering  each  other  as  if  either  could  be  deceived." 

*^The  little  thing  wanted  a  peep  at  London,"  continued  JMr. 


BEATEIOE.  365- 

Gervoise,  sipping  his  tea — "  at  least  I  suppose  so,  for  she  went 
off  in  such  a  hurry  that  her  maid  knew  nothing  about  it  until  she 
found  her  room  empty,  and  strewn  with  all  her  things.  Perhaps 
they  will  be  back  this  afternoon,  though  maybe  not.  Antony 
will  not  like  to  fatigue  his  little  wife  !  " 

Beatrice  did  not  answer.  She  knew  enough  now — she  knew 
all.  Antony  had  never  really  left — ^he  had  merely  hidden  and 
watched  and  followed  Rosy,  and  no  doubt  overtaken  and  caught 
her  by  this  time.  But  if  such  were  the  case,  Antony  was  no  doubt 
too  tender  of  his  little  wife  to  fatigue  her  by  a  long  journey ;  for 
not  during  the  whole  of  that  day — and  how  long  a  one  it  seemed  to 
Beatrice  ! — did  the  faintest  sound  of  wheels  announce  his  return. 
It  was  deep,  dark  night,  and  she  was  sitting  with  Mrs.  Gervoise, 
when  that  lady  saw  her  start.  She  looked  inquiringly  at  her 
daughter,  who  tried  to  say  calmly  : 

"It  is  only  a  carriage  darling — ^Antony  coming  back,  I  sup- 
pose." But  she  felt  her  heart  sickening  within  her.  Was  he 
alone  !  She  did  not  long  remain  in  doubt.  She  heard  Antony's 
voice  on  the  staircase,  saying  to  his  wife's  maid : 

"  Go  and  fetch  Mrs.  Antony  Gervoise's  shawl — it  is  in  the 
carriage." 

Irresistible  compassion  made  Beatrice  rise  and  open  the  door 
of  her  mother's  room.  She  did  not  cross  the  threshold,  she  had 
no  need  ;  coming  up  toward  her  she  ,saw  Antony  and  his  wife. 
Two  lamp-bearing  statues  in  their  niches  made  the  broad  stair- 
case of  Carnoosie  bright  as  day.  Beatrice  saw  distinctly  An- 
tony's cruel  exulting  face,  and  Rosy's  pale  as  death.  The  poor 
young  thing  clung  to  the  banisters  with  convulsive  grasp,  and 
seemed  as  if  she  must  have  fallen  but  for  that  support.  She  did 
not  see  Beatrice's  sad,  pitying  face — she  saw  nothing.  Before 
her  ever  passed  a  frightful  scene — frightful  to  her,  following  o|i 
the  anxious  escape  and  flight,  and  closing  them  in  dreary  capture. 
But  Antony  saw  Beatrice  well,  and  he  read  the  meaning  of  her 
look,  and  when  their  eyes  met,  his  had  a  mocking  light.  With 
sad  severity  Beatrice  returned  the  gaze.  She  felt  far  more  com- 
passion for  than  anger  against  Antony  Gervoise  ;  she  knew  he  was 
but  a  tool  in  another's  hand,  and  though  a  willing  tool,  also  a 
blind  one.  But  Antony  was  resolved  on  braving  her.  He  said, 
with  ironical  emphasis : 

"  You  see.  Miss  Gordon,  what  it  is  to  be  a  married  man.  I 
went  off  without  my  wife,  but  she  soon  overtook  me." 

Rosy  was  too  much  cast  down  to  feel  this  taunt,  but  a  flush 
of  resentment  rose  to  Beatrice's  face. 


366  BEATRICE. 

"  Do  not  keep  Mrs.  Glervoise  on  the  staircase,"  she  said  to 
Antony  ;  "  she  looks  faint  and  unwell." 

"  Why,  you  know  when  ladies  will  go  off  racing  after  their 

husbands "  jeeringly  began  Antony.     Beatrice  did  not  give 

him  time  to  go  on.  She  went  down  a  few  steps,  took  Rosy's 
arm,  and  led  her  into  her  mother's  room. 

"Miss  Gordon,"  sullenly  said  Antony,  "I  shall  thank  you 
not  to  interfere." 

Beatrice  turned  upon  him  with  a  wearied  look. 

"  Mr.  Antony  Gervoise,"  she  said,  "  if  my  interference  dis- 
pleases you,  the  remedy  lies  in  your  own  hands — leave  this 
house." 

She  did  not  wait  for  his  answer,  but,  closing  the  door,  led  in 
Rosy,  and  made  her  sit  down  in  a  deep  arm-chair.  Mrs.  Ger- 
voise  raised  herself  from  the  couch  on  which  she  was  lying,  and 
looked  alternately  at  Beatrice  and  at  Mrs.  Antony  Gervoise's 
pale  face.  With  kind  but  silent  solicitude,  Beatrice  took  off  her 
things,  went  and  brought  her  some  wine  and  a  biscuit  from 
her  mother's  ever-ready  stores,  and  only  spoke  when  she  saw 
her  reviving. 

"  What  else  w^ould  you  wish  for  ?  " 

"  Could  I  spend  the  night  here?"  whispered  Rosy,  looking 
around  her,  "here  with  you?" 

"  This  is  my  mother's  room,  but  you  can  come  to  mine." 

"  Beatrice  !  "  anxiously  said  her  mother.  • 

"  Darling,"  gravely  said  Beatrice,  "  we  cannot  deal  with 
this  poor  lamb  otherwise  than  we  would  be  dealt  with  our- 
selves." 

Mrs.  Gervoise  was  mute,  and  Rosy,  who  was  too  prostrate, 
and  too  much  absorbed  in  her  own  trouble  to  understand  the 
anxiety  she  caused,  only  looked  at  Beatrice. 

"  Would  you  like  to  rest  now?"  asked  Miss  Gordon. 

"Would  it  be  safe?" 

"  I  shall  lock  you  in." 

"  Oh  !  do.     Oh  !  Miss  Gordon,  I  so  long  for  rest !  " 

"  Then  come  with  me." 

Beatrice  took  a  light,  and  led  her  to  her  room  at  once.  She 
showed  her  that  all  the  doors  were  securely  fastened,  then  helped 
her  to  undress. 

"  Miss  Gordon,  do  you  think  it  a  sin  to  wish  one  were 
dead?"  sighed  poor  little  Rosy,  as  she  crept  into  Beatrice's 
ample  bed,  and  Miss  Gordon  enclosed  her  in  the  heavy  curtains. 


BEATEICE.  367 

"  Because  I  do  so  wish  this  bed  were  my  grave,"  she  con- 
tinued, without  waiting  for  Beatrice's  answer. 

"  And  your  father  !  "  suggested  Beatrice. 

"  I  am  his  torment,  Miss  Gordon.  If  you  were  to  know  how 
miserable  all  this  has  made  him  !  Oh !  what  a  wicked  child  I 
have  been ! " 

"  Do  not  think  of  that — ^try  and  sleep." 

"  I  cannot.     I  am  too  miserable." 

She  looked  very  wretched  indeed,  but  she  was  also  at  the  age 
when  physical  fatigue  conquers  every  other  feeling,  and  even  as 
she  spoke  to  Beatrice,  drowsiness,  heavy  and  deep,  overtook  her. 
The  room  was  large,  and  the  wax  light  Beatrice  had  brought 
and  placed  on  the  table  lit  it  feebly.  Through  her  half-shut  eyes 
Rosy  saw  the  walls  covered  with  faded  damask,  the  vague  out- 
lines of  furniture,  and,  in  the  shadow  of  the  heavy  curtains, 
Beatrice's  handsome  face  looking  at  her  tenderly  from  the  foot 
of  her  bed.  A  sense  of  security  from  all  unkindness,  of  a  rest, 
brief,  but  sure,  in  her  sad  young  life,  came  to  her.  She  forgot 
the  morrow,  she  felt  the  present,  and,  childlike,  surrendered  her- 
self to  its  sweetness.  Her  lids  closed,  consciousness  remained  a 
moment,  then  suddenly  vanished,  and  she  sank  into  sound  and 
deep  slumber.  Beatrice  waited  awhile,  then  softly  stole  out  of 
the  room,  locked  the  door,  and  went  back  to  her  mother.  She 
found  Mrs.  Gervoise  in  tears. 

"Beatrice,  we  are  undone  !  "  she  cried,  piteously.  "  Do  not 
think  you  can  interfere  with  impunity,  do  not.  It  is  not  for  my- 
self I  am  speaking,  Beatrice.  I  know  you  think  me  a  great 
coward,  but  it  is  not  for  myself  I  fear.     Beatrice,  it  is  for  you." 

"  Darling,  what  are  we  to  do?  You  saw  her  face?  We 
cannot  forsake  her,  come  what  will.  I  would  rather  have  noth- 
ing to  do  with  her ;  for  she  is  his  wife  after  all,  but  I  cannot  for- 
sake her.  I  should  fear  the  displeasure  of  Heaven  if  I  could  be 
so  selfish  and  so  cold.  She  is  fast  asleep  in  my  bed  now,  and 
she  looks  such  a  child  !  I  do  not  think  she  is  eighteen  yet.  Oh  ! 
what  a  fate  slie  has  rushed  on !  What  a  fearful  trap  is  mar- 
riage, when  it  is  not  the  greatest  happiness  of  life." 

"Yes,  Beatrice  ;  but  still  be  careful.  This  is  mere  flying  in 
Mr.  Gervoise's  face  ;  be  careful,  my  darling." 

Beatrice  was  silent.  If  her  mother  had  known  about  Mr. 
Mortimer,  if  she  had  known  who  Rosy  was,  what  would  not  her 
terror  have  been  ? 

Mrs.  Gervoise  laid  her  hand  on  her  daughter's  shoulder, 
looked  anxiously  in  her  face,  and  asked  what  she  would  do  ? 


368  BEATRICE. 

Beatrice  clasped  her  hands  around  her  knees,  and  raising 
her  bright  dark  eyes  to  Mrs.  Gervoise's  pale  and  anxious  face, 
replied : 

"  Darling,  I  cannot  forsake  her." 

Mrs.  Gervoise  sank  back  and  sighed. 

"  We  are  ruined,  Beatrice,  and  you  will  see  it  when  it  is  too 
late." 

"I  trust  in  God  and  in  His  providence,"  replied  Beatrice, 
fervently.  "  If  I  fight  the  battles  of  that  poor  weak  child.  He 
will  not  forsake  me  !  " 

She  rose  to  go.  It  was  late,  and  to  argue  any  longer  with 
her  mother  pained  Beatrice.  It  hurt  her  to  find  that  long  suf- 
fering and  constant  fear  had  rendered  Mrs.  Gervoise  so  cautious 
— not  to  say  selfish.  She  did  not  know  that  the  strong  alone  are 
truly  generous. 

Beatrice  bid  her  mother  good  night,  and  went  back  to  her 
room.  She  found  Rosy  still  fast  asleep,  and  sitting  down  near 
the  bed,  she  looked  at  her  and  thought : 

"  Poor  little  silly  thing !  Am  I  to  pay  so  dear  for  your  error 
as  my  darling  thinks  ?  Who  knows  ?  I  believe  it  is  a  law  of 
this  world  that  the  strong  should  bear  the  burdens  of  the  weak. 
When  my  poor  mother  bids  me  forsake  you,  she  forgets  that  she 
fell  into  your  error,  and  that  to  my  dying  day  I  shall  pay  the 
cost  of  her  fancy  for  marrying  Mr.  Gervoise.  She  had  her  way 
and  her  short  joy,  and  I,  who  was  a  child  then,  now  sufier  for  if 
as  a  woman.  Even  so  with  you,  Rosy.  You  would  have  that 
fair-haired  and  blue-eyed  Antony,  ^nd  I  must  pay  the  price. 
Why  should  I  suffer  ?  Have  I  not  well  nigh  broken  my  own 
heart,  and  given  up  one  in  whose  shadow  neither  Antony  nor  his 
father  is  fit  to  stand,  and  if  I  did  that,  could  not  you,  both  of 
you,  do  this  ?  It  seems  not.  It  seems,  too,  that  I  must  be 
dragged  from  my  last  stronghold,  quietness,  into  the  turmoil  of 
this  hard  battle !  Be  it  so !  I  would  rather  perish  fighting 
bravely,  than  live  secure  in  ignoble  peace." 

And  still  Rosy  slept  sound  and  deep,  and  Beatrice  at  length 
undressed,  and  stole  in  near  her.  It  was  dawn  ere  her  lids 
closed  from  very  weariness,  and  scarcely  had  she  slept  an  hour 
when  she  was  awakened  by  a  stifled  scream.  She  started  up, 
and  saw  Rosy  sitting  in  bed,  looking  around  her  with  scared 
eyes. 

"  I  suppose  I  dreamed,"  she  gasped.  "  I  thought  my  hus- 
band was  here." 

"  You  certainly  must  have  dreamed  it,  Rosy.  Lie  down  and 
sleep  again." 


BEATEICE.  369 

"Are  you  sure  there  is  no  danger,  Miss  Gordon?  Are  the 
doors  safe  and  strong  ?  " 

"  They  are.  But  my  security  rests  on  something  stronger 
than  oak  and  bolts  of  iron.  Do  not  suppose  for  a  moment  that 
your  husband  would  venture  to  enter  this  room.  He  knows  well 
enough  that  if  he  made  the  attempt  he  would  leave  Carnoosie  the 
next  moment.     You  are  safe."  ^ 

"  Yes,  but  I  cannot  always  stay." 

''  No,  poor  child,  you  cannot.  Ah !  why  were  you  so  iU-ad- 
vised  as  to  fly !    How  did  you  not  see  it  was  a  trap  laid  for  you  ?  " 

"  So  he  told  me  when  he  caught  me,  and  laughed  at  me.  Oh  ! 
Miss  Gordon,  he  will  assuredly  kill  me  !  " 

Beatrice  felt  her  tremble  with  the  intensity  of  her  fear.  She 
looked  at  her  with  a  sort  of  wonder.  She  could  not  understand 
a  terror  so  deep.  It  seemed  to  her  that  no  amount  of  physical 
danger  could  have  made  her  feel  so. 

"  And  I  must  go  back  to  him,  I  suppose,"  said  Rosy  with  a 
shudder. 

"  Do  not  fear  him,  my  poor  child,"  replied  Beatrice  with  a 
bright  smile,  "  trust  in  me.     I  can  help  you  yet." 

Rosy  gave  her  a  doubtful  look,  then  got  up  slowly,  and  dress- 
ed with  a  sigh. 

When  she  was  ready,  she  sat  down  and  said  piteously : 
^      "I  cannot  go  to  him.  Miss  Gordon." 

"  Very  well,  then,  I  shall,"  replied  .Beatrice,  who  had  been 
dressing  too,  and,  giving  Rosy  a  cheerful  nod,  she  left  the  room, 
and  went  out  to  seek  Antony. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

Antony  was  on  the  landing.  He  gave  Beatrice  a  sullen  look, 
and  asked  with  forced  politeness, 

"  May  I  trouble  you  for  my  wife,  Miss  Gordon?  " 

"  She  is  coming — ^but  I  want  to  speak  to  you.  Come  with 
me.'' 

Antony  looked  as  if  he  scarcely  liked  to  trust  himself  with 
Beatrice,  yet,  ashamed  to  refuse,  he  obeyed  and  followed  her 
down  stairs.  He  stopped  still  at  the  door  of  the  library,  as  if 
expecting  they  should  enter  it  together,  but  Beatrice  shook  her 
head. 

"  Not  here,"  she  said,  "  the  morning  is  fine,  and  I  like  out- 
door conversations  best,  Antony." 

With  a  light  step  she  went  out  on  the  terrace,  passed  through 
the  flower-garden  and  entered  the  orchard. 

It  was  very  beautiful  on  this  morning.  The  dew  lay  heavy 
and  bright  on  the  grass.  The  apple-trees,  laden  with  fruit, 
spread  their  green  branches  far  and  wide,  and  threw  a  dappled 
shade  on  the  earth.  Through  the  light  foliage  Beatrice  could  see 
the  blue  sky  speckled  with  light  morning  clouds.  On  every 
bough  birds  sang  and  rejoiced.  How  could  sorrow  and  discord 
abide  in  a  scene  so  fair  ?  Reckless  of  the  dew,  Beatrice  sat  down, 
and  signed  Antony  to  sit  down  by  her.  He  did  so,  and  with  a 
full  heart  she  began : 

"  Antony,  do  you  remember  that  morning  in  spring  when 
you  told  me  you  loved  me,  and  that  you  wished  to  marry  me?  I 
do,  and  I  cannot  help  thinkingf  of  it  now,  after  leaving  your  poor 
little  wife  pale  with  fear  in  my  room.  If  I  had  said  '  Yes  '  instead 
of  saying  '  No,'  and  became  your  wife,  how  would  you  have  used 
me  ?  You  could  not  have  made  me  fear  you,  but  you  would  have 
been  cruel  and  unkind.  I  suppose  you  would  have  beaten  me, 
Antony,  and  that  a  blow  would  have  been  the  end  of  all  your 
love." 


BEATEICE.     '  371 

She  looked  at  him  very  sadly,  for  her  old  pity  for  this  mis- 
guided young  man  was  fast  coming  back  to  her. 

Antony  looked  moved,  and,  clearing  his  voice,  he  said : 

"  I  would  never  have  struck  you.  You  know  well  enough  I 
was  fond  of  you." 

"  I  believe  you  were,  Antony,  but  I  know,  too,  that  you  have 
a  young  wife,  pretty  and  good,  a  child  in  some  things  but  with  a 
fond  and  true  heart,  and  I  know  too  that  she  did  what  I  could 
not  have  done,  she  married  you  fop4ove.  How  is  it,  then,  that 
you  cannot  be  happy  together,  or,  rather,  that  you  cannot  make 
her  happy  ?  If  she  was  exacting  at  first,  she  is  cured  of  the  fault 
by  this.  All  she  wants  is  your  affection  and  peace.  And  I 
think  she  could  have  both,  Antony,  if  you  were  not  living  in 
Carnoosie." 

"  Why  so  ?  "  he  sharply  asked. 

"  You  know  my  meaning,"  gravely  replied  Beatrice,  "  yet  I 
do  not  mind  explaining  it,  you  may  even  repeat  every  word  I  ut- 
ter to  Mr.  Gervoise,  if  you  please.  What  I  have  to  say  is  this — 
whilst  you  are  under  his  influence  neither  you  nor  Rosy  will  be 
happy.  It  has  been  the  aim  of  his  life  to  rule  by  dividing. 
Leave  him.  I  do  not  sin  by  telling  you  to  do  so.  Scripture 
says,  '•  And  a  man  shall  leave  both  father  and  mother  and  cleave 
unto  his  wife.'  Follow  that  rule.  You  are  not  poor.  What  is 
to  prevent  you  from  having  your  home,  and  enjoying  it  with 
Rosy?" 

"  I  wish  I  had  it,"  impetuously  cried  Antony.  "  I  am  sick 
of  this  life,  Beatrice.  You  think  you  know  my  father — ^you  do 
not.  He  is  not  merely  your  greatest  foe,  he  is  mine.  Beatrice,  I 
hate  him  ! "  he  whispered. 

"Hush!  "  said  Beatrice,  rising  and  looking  the  disgust  she 
felt,  "  if  you  cannot  honour  him,  Antony,  you  can  at  least  be 
silent.  And  now  you  asked  me  for  Rosy,  I  think  I  see  her 
coming." 

It  was  indeed  poor  little  Rosy,  who,  thinking  to  escape  her 
husband,  had  sought  the  very  spot  where  he  was.  She  saw  him 
and  Beatrice  when  it  was  too  late  to  turn  back,  and  she  walked 
toward  them  with  a  frightened  mien  and  hesitating  steps.  But  it 
was  not  at  her,  it  was  at  Antony  that  Beatrice  looked.  Alas  ! 
there  was  but  little  promise  of  good  in  that  cruel  face.  Still 
Beatrice  did  not  lose  heart. 

"  Rosy,"  she  said,  "  you  must  spare  your  husband  to  me  for 
a  while — I  want  him  still." 

She  passed  her  arm  within  Antony's  and  led  him  away,  and 


37B  BEATEICE. 

Antony  allowed  himself  to  be  led,  and  thought  that  Beatrice 
looked  sweetly  handsome  this  morning.  He  was  weak,  as  the 
bad  often  are,  and  though  he  soon  knew  she  was  taking  him  to 
Mr.  Stone's  cottage,  he  did  not  attempt  to  resist.  When  they 
stood  within  view  of  the  house,  Beatrice  stopped  short,  and  said : 

"It  is  a  pretty  place,  but  it  is  mortgaged — mortgaged  to  your 
father,"  she  continued,  "  and  the  interest  almost  swallows  up  the 
rent ;  and  your  farm  brings  you  in  a  mere  trifle,  and  you  are  deep 
in  debt,  Antony." 

"  How  do  you  know  it?  "  he  asked. 

Beatrice  had  only  guessed  it,  but  she  did  not  choose  to  say  so. 
She  continued : 

"  Rosy  brought  you  no  ready  money,  but,  Antony,  do  you 
wish  to  know  the  advice  I  gave  Mr.  Stone  the  other  day  ? — the 
advice  he  promised  to  follow,  and  which  he  did  not  ?  I  advised 
him  to  pay  your  debts." 

Antony's  face  brightened,  then  fell  again. 

"  He  will  not  do  that,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  he  will,  if  you  will  go  abroad  with  him  and  his  daugh- 
ter. He  tried  his  plan,  and  it  failed ;  he  will  try  mine.  Now, 
Antony,  you  are  thinking  of  ^eating,  but  it  will  not  do.  Mr. 
Stone  will  not  pay  a  farthing  for  you  until  he  has  his  daughter 
safe  out  of  Carnoosie." 

"  And  suppose  he  should  cheat,  and  not  keep  his  word  when 
he  has  got  her  ?  "  bluntly  said  Antony. 

"  I  shall  be  his  guarantee,"  gravely  replied  Beatrice. 

Antony  was  greatly  tempted,  but  the  thought  of  his  father 
held  him  back.  , 

"  You  know,"  said  Beatrice,  "  that  if  you  consult  Mr.  Ger- 
voise,  the  bargain  is  at  an  end." 

"  Why,  what  do  you  want  me  to  do,  then?"  asked  Antony, 
bewildered. 

"  To  send  Mr.  Stone's  servant  for  your  wife,  and  to  see  her 
off  with  her  father  before  an  hour  is  over.  You  can  follow  her 
at  your  leisure,"  she  composedly  added. 

"  Well,  that  is  a  tight  bargain,"  said  Antony,  drawing  a  deep 
breath. 

"  Perhaps  it  is ;  but,  then,  you  can  stay  in  Carnoosie,  and 
keep  your  debts  if  you  please.  You  see,"  she  added,  "it  is  not 
pleasant  for  me  to  bribe  you  in  this  way ;  but  what  is  one  to  do, 
Antony,  when  one  deals  with  a  man  like  you  ?  " 

The  sad  severity  of  her  tone  stung  Antony.  Ay,  it  was  a 
shameful  bargain,  this  buying  of  him  to  take  Rosy  away  from  a 


BEATRICE.  373 

life  of  woe  to  one  of  comparative  peace ;  but  then  she  need  not 
make  him  feel  it ! 

"  Do  it,  Antony,"  she  said,  softly  pressing  his  arm,  "  do  this 
one  good  deed,  and  make  yom'self  happy  as  well  as  that  poor  old 
man  and  your  little  wife." 

This  adjuration  was  considerably  strengthened  by  the  recol- 
lection that,  the  very  day  before  this,  Mr.  Gervoise  had  warned 
his  son  not  to  contract  new  debts,  as  he  really  could  not  assist 
him  any  more. 

"  rU  do  it,"  resolutely  said  Antony — "  Til  do  it  this  very  mo- 
ment.'* 

"  Very  well,"  answered  Beatrice  quietly.  "  Let  us  go  in — 
I  dare  say  Mr.  Stone  is  within." 

He  was  within,  sitting  by  the  window,  but  with  his  back  to 
it,  and  his  arms  moodily  folded.  He  looked  up  on  hearing  them 
enter,  and  stared  at  Antony.  His  lips  quivered,  the  veins  in  his 
forehead  swelled  and  started ;  he  looked  as  Beatrice  had  seen 
her  watch-dog  look  before  he  sprang.     She  hastened  to  speak. 

"Mr.  Stone,"  she  said,  "you  remember  our  conversation  ; 
if  you  are  willing  to  act  on  the  suggestion  I  then  made,  Mr.  An- 
tony Gervoise  is  willing  to  travel  abroad  with  your  daughter  and 
you." 

The  two  men  exchanged  glances.  Mr.  Stone's  was  stern 
and  wary  ;  Antony's  half  shy,  half  insolent. 

"  Are  you  both  willing?"  asked  Beatrice  again,  in  a  clear, 
ringing  voice. 

They  did  not  reply,  but  she  saw  that  they  were.  She  turned 
to  Antony. 

"  What  is  the  figure  of  your  debts  ?  "  she  resumed. 

Antony  hesitated.  She  gave  him  a  chair,  brought  an  ink- 
stand and  a  pen,  asked  Mr.  Stone  for  some  paper,  and  leaving 
them  together,  she  walked  out  into  the  garden.  She  knew  it 
would  be  a  hard  bargain  ;  for,  dearly  though  he  loved  his  child, 
Mr.  Stone  was  not  the  man  to  let  himself  be  plundered  recklessly, 
and  she  did  not  wish  to  hear  the  particulars. 

"Oh  ! "  she  thought,  as  she  walked  up  and  down  the  narrow 
path,  "  if  I  but  had  the  blessings  given  to  that  unthankful  boy  ! 
If  I  had  happiness  and  a  true  heart  bestowed  on  me,  could  I  so 
waste  the  priceless  boons  ?  Oh  !  Gilbert,  Gilbert,  why  are  we 
not  as  they  are,  bound  by  the  chain  of  marriage,  and  compelled 
by  duty  to  happiness  ?  And  why  are  they  not  as  we  are — apart 
and  free  from  all  bonds  ?  "  And  stiU  time  passed,  and  she  heard 
them  talking  within.     At  length  Mr.  Stone  came  forth  to  her. 


374  BEATEICE. 

"Well,"  said  Beatrice. 

"  Well,  it  is  settled,  and  I  am  to  be  off  with  Rosy  as  soon  as 
she  comes.     The  servant  is  gone  with  a  note  from  him  to  her." 

His  face  was  very  moody,  but  Beatrice  had  no  need  to  ques- 
tion him.  Of  his  own  accord  he  poured  forth  all  the  bitterness 
in  his  mind. 

"  And  so,  she  must  live  with  him,"  he  said,  "  with  that  black- 
leg, that  gambler,  that  low-minded  groom,  and  I  must  look  on 
and  see  it,  and  be  patient  too." 

"  Ay,  you  must  indeed,"  replied  Beatrice,  "  for  remember 
that  she  married  him  for  love,  and  that  she  loves  him  still." 

"  I  do  not  believe  it — ^pray  do  not  say  so — I  know  you  mean 
well — I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,  but  you  have  not  the  feel- 
ings of  a  parent,  or  you  would  not  say  that." 

He  spoke  with  much  asperity.  He  could  not  help  it.  He 
did  not  like,  and  had  never  liked  Beatrice.  She  was  the  cause 
of  all  his  woe.  His  inheritance  had  been  bestowed  upon  her, 
and  his  fatal  belief  in  her  insanity  had  been  his  final  undoing. 
Some  of  his  feelings  Beatrice  guessed,  and  she  forgave  him  both 
silently  and  freely.  Mr.  Stone  spoke  no  more,  though  he  stayed 
with  her ;  he  had  come  out  to  shun  Antony's  hateful  presence, 
not  to  talk.  The  young  man  remained  within,  not  caring  to  join 
them,  and  thus  a  long  while  passed,  until  at  length  Rosy's  muslin 
dress  appeared  at  the  garden  gate.  Her  father  went  and  spoke 
a  few  hurried  words  to  her,  then  brought  her  to  Beatrice. 

"  Oh  !  Miss  Gordon,"  she  sobbed,  flinging  her  arms  around 
Beatrice's  neck — 

"  Hush  !  "  said  Beatrice,  "  go  quickly.  Antony  might  take 
another  whim.  Do  not  thank  me ;  kiss  me  and  go.  I  shall 
send  every  thing  you  want  after  you.  Go  at  once,  or  the  oppor- 
tunity may  slip  by." 

Mr.  Stone  took  his  daughter's  arm,  aid  led  her  away.  The 
station  was  near  their  cottage,  they  would  reach  it  in  a  quarter 
of  an  hour,  take  the  express  train,  and  stand  on  the  French  coast 
within  three  hours.  .  Once  they  were  there,  it  would  not  be  quite 
so  easy  for  Antony  to  change  his  mind.  Beatrice  went  in  to 
him,  and  found  him  sitting  on  the  parlour  table,  looking  at  a  box 
he  had  taken  from  the  chiffonnier. 

*'  I  suppose  that  is  Rosy's,"  he  said,  and  he  threw  it  down 
carelessly,  and  the  little  gold  thimble  and  scissors  rolled  out  on 
the  floor. 

"  Had  you  not  better  go  back  to  Carnoosie?"  he  said  after  a 
while. 


BEATRICE.  376 

"  Do  you  not  return?"  asked  Beatrice. 

"  Why — no — I  am  going  down  to  Yorkshire,  and  thence  I 
shall  probably  join  them  in  France." 

Beatrice  smiled  rather  scornfully.  She  knew  that  he  did  not 
dare  to  meet  his  father,  and  so  left  her  the  task  of  breaking  the 
news  to  him,  but  she  said  "  As  you  please,"  and  turned  to  the 
door. 

"Won't  you  shake  hands?"  coaxingly  asked  Antony.  "I 
have  done  a  good  deal  to  oblige  you,  you  know,  for  he's  dread- 
fully stingy.  Wouldn't  come  down  with  more  than  a  paltry 
check,  the  old  miser  ! " 

He  stood  by  her  side,  and  Beatrice  gave  him  her  hand,  not 
in  friendship,  not  in  regard,  but  in  mere  pity  for  his  very  degra- 
dation. And  as  she  walked  away,  Antony  looked  after  her  sup- 
ple and  stately  figure,  and  compared  her  with  a  sigh  to  his  fret- 
ting little  wife. 

Every  thing  had  combined  to  favor  Rosy's  second  flight.  Mr. 
Gervoise  had  overslept  himself,  and  never  learned  that  she  was 
gone,  and  that  his  son  and  Beatrice  were  missing,  until  Mr. 
Stone  and  his  daughter  were  on  board  the  steamer.  Even  when 
he  perceived  her  absence,  he  was  not  alarmed  ;  it  was  out  of  the 
question  that  she  should  have  run  away  again.  Accordingly, 
when,  from  the  terrace  where  he  stood  smoking,  he  saw  Beatrice 
slowly  advancing  toward  him  through  the  flower  garden,  he  was 
struck  with  the  thoughtful  gravity  of  her  countenance. 

"  My  dear  Beatrice,"  he  said,  taking  out  his  cigar  and  going 
to  the  head  of  the  steps  to  address  her,  "  can  you  give  no  news 
of  Antony  ?    He  is  to  be  found  nowhere." 

"  I  believe  he  is  gone  or  going  to  Yorkshire,"  replied  Beatrice, 
"  at  least  he  told  me  so." 

Mr.  Gervoise  felt  that  something  had  happened. 

"  Is  his  wife  with  him?"  he  asked. 

"  No,  she  is  gone  to  France  vrith  her  father." 

"And  I  suppose  Antony  will  join  them." 

"  I  suppose  so,"  she  composedly  replied. 

Whatever  Mr.  Gervoise  felt,  he  put  on  his  grandest  and 
calmest  manner  to  say : 

"  Miss  Gordon,  may  I  inquire  if  you  are  at  the  bottom  of 
this." 

There  was  a  pause,  just  one  second  of  rest,  then  Beatrice's 
bright  eyes  flashed,  and  she  said  : 

"  I  am." 

"  Perhaps,  Miss  Gordon,  you  will  not  mind  teUing  me  what 


^^fi^  BEATEIOE. 

argument  you  used  to  persuade  my  son  into  this  most  extraordi- 
nary step." 

"  An  unanswerable  argument — ^I  told  Mr.  Stone  to  pay  his 
debts."  * 

Mr.  Gervoise  smiled  ;  he  might  resent  Beatrice's  interference, 
but  to  think  that  the  silly  girl  should  imagine  Antony  could  stay 
away  from  him  !  As  "  the  deep  calls  the  deep,"  so  did  Mr.  Ger- 
voise's  badness  call  his  son's. 

They  spoke  no  more.  Beatrice  lightly  came  up  the  steps, 
and  broad  though  they  were,  Mr.  Gervoise  stepped  back  to  let 
her  pass.  No  seigneur  of  the  ancient  regime  looked  grander  than 
Mr.  Gervoise,  or  had  manners  more  courteous  and  stately  than 
his  this  morning,  as  he  stood  thus  dignified,  though  respectful, 
whilst  his  step-daughter  went  by  him  and  entered  the  house. 
She  ran  up  to  her  mother's  room,  and  found  the  poor  lady  sadly 
anxious.  On  hearing  what  had  happened,  Mrs.  Gervoise  looked 
at  Beatrice,  and  said  drearily : 

"  Antony's  father  will  never  forgive  you  taking  him  away — 
never,  Beatrice." 

"  Perhaps  not,"  replied  her  daughter,  and  her  careless  smile 
said  plainly,  "  What  need  I  care?" 

A  few  days  later  came  a  happy  and  hopeful  letter  from  Rosy. 
Her  husband  had  joined  her — all  was  well  again. 


,iM 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 

Beatrice  did  not  care,  yet  she  could  not  fall  asleep  that  night. 
Rosy's  deliverance  from  trouble,  which  now  seemed  final,  gave 
her  no  relief.  She  felt  exhausted  and  wearied,  and  life  was  once 
more  a  burden  and  a  labour.  The  consciousness  of  something 
to  do  had  roused  her  for  a  time  ;  now  that  it  was  done,  she  knew 
that  she  must  sink  once  more  into  the  old  apathy  and  dreariness. 

It  was  very  late  when  her  eyes  at  length  closed  in  sleep,  and 
she  had  not  been  sleeping  long  when  a  light  flashing  suddenly 
across  her  eyelids  awoke  her.  She  started  up  and  saw  her  mother 
in  her  white  night-dress  standing  by  her  bed,  with  a  lighted  wax 
candle  in  her  hand. 

"  My  darling,  what  is  it?"  asked  Beatrice. 

"  Beatrice,  I  told  you  it  would  be  ruin  if  you  interfered  in 
Rosy's  matters,  and  it  is  ruin.  It  is  hanging  over  us  now,  and 
there  is  no  remedy — none,  Beatrice." 

"  My  darling,  what  makes  you  come  to  me  at  this  hour  ?  You 
are  shivering  with  cold  ;  come  in  to  me,  and  tell  me  what  it  is." 

Mrs.  Gervoise  was  shivering,  indeed,  but  with  nervous  fear. 
Yet  she  crept  in  to  her  daughter's  bed,  and  whilst  Beatrice  sat 
bending  over  her,  she  laid  her  head  on  the  pillow  with  a  sigh. 

"  Beatrice,"  she  said,  "  I  have  long  felt  the  end  coming,  and 
now  it  is  at  hand,  and,  Beatrice,  it  will  be  terrible.  Antony  is 
here.     I  have  heard  and  seen  him  speaking  with  his  father." 

Beatrice  pressed  her  hand  to  her  forehead.  Ay !  evil  was 
surely  near  if  these  two  had  once  more  met  in  council. 

"  Darling,  how  do  you  know  this?"  she  asked. 

"  Mr.  Gervoise  keeps  his  papers  in  the  room  next  mine,  as 
you  know,  and  though  I  was  dozing,  I  heard  them  talking  to- 
gether, and  I  felt,  Beatrice,  they  were  talking  about  you.  I  sat 
up  and  listened,  but  at  once  the  door  opened  and  Mr.  Gervoise 
came  in  upon  me.  He  looked  hard  at  me,  and  said :  '  Have  you 
been  talking  in  your  sleep?'  I  answered  'No.'  'You  have,* 
he  insisted.     '  I  heard  you.'     Beatrice,  I  am  a  born  coward,  I 


3Y8  BEATRICE. 

said  I  had  been  dreaming.  '  There  is  no  doubt  about  it/  he 
continued,  '  I  heard  you  most  distinctly.*  He  stayed  some  time, 
then  left  me." 

"  Darling,"  soothingly  said  Beatrice,  "  you  look  excited, 
perhaps  you  dreamed  this." 

"  Beatrice,  I  heard  them,  and  I  saw  him  when  he  came  into 
my  room,  the  light  from  the  night-lamp  fell  full  on  his  face,  and 
I  saw  him." 

"  Yes,  darling,  but  the  rest  might  be  a  dream." 

"  No,  Beatrice,  for  there  is  more.  I  could  not  sleep  after  he 
had  left  me.  The  house  was  very  quiet.  I  got  up,  half  dressed 
myself,  and  entered  the  room  where  I  had  heard  them.  They 
were  not  there,  but  there  was  a  dull  sound  of  voices  in  the  library 
below.  So  I  softly  stole  down,  and  unbolting  the  door  of  the  old 
dining-room,  I  walked  out  on  the  terrace." 

"Oh  !  darling,  how  could  you  do  that?" 

"  It  is  not  cold,  Beatrice  ;  besides,  I  would  be  convinced.  I 
stole  to  the  library  window,  where  a  light  was  burning,  and, 
Beatrice,  I  saw  them  within.  The  table  was  covered  with  books, 
at  which  they  had  been  looking,  I  suppose,  and  they  sat  side  by 
side,  talking  in  whispers.  Suddenly  Mr.  Gervoise  got  up  ;  I  was 
frightened,  ran  back  to  my  room,  and  got  into  bed.  I  thought 
he  would  come  and  tax  me  with  watching  him,  but  he  did  not, 
so  I  took  courage  again  and  came  to  you." 

"  Darling  ! "  exclaimed  Beatrice,  much  amazed,  "  indeed  you 
are  feverish,  you  must  h^ve  dreamed  it.  What  could  take  them 
to  the  library,  and  make  them  look  at  ray  books  ?  They  would 
find  nothing  in  them,  and  they  know  it." 

"  Beatrice,  I  tell  you  that  I  saw  them,  and  their  two  faces 
are  before  me  still.  There  was  something  in  them  which  I  could 
not  forget,  something  assuredly  against 'you,  Beatrice.  I  know 
that  I  have  been  selfish,  and  cold,  and  torpid,  but  you  were  not 
in  danger ;  now  you  are,  and  the  mother's  instinct  is  awakened 
within  me.  I  tell  you  these  two  men  are  plotting,  and,  Beatrice, 
weak  as  I  am,  I  will  do  battle  for  you  against  them  both." 

She  sat  up  in  the  bed  and  clasped  her  hands.  A  deep  hectic 
flush  had  settled  on  her  pale  cheeks,  her  eyes  burned  with  unusual 
fire,  and  Beatrice  felt  her  whole  frame  tremble. 

"  My  darling,"  she  said,  fondly,  "it  is  your  great  love  for 
me  that  sees  danger.  Alas  !  I  will  not  deny  it — mine  is  not  a 
happy  life — not  what  the  life  of  Beatrice  Gordon  might  be.  But 
yet,  darling,  danger  and  Beatrice  must  not  be  spoken  of  in  the 
same  breath.     Am  I  not  the  mistress  of  Carnoosie,  guarded  by 


BEATRICE.  3Y9 

station,  wealth,  and  that  law  which,  if  it  shields  all,  most  shields 
the  rich  who  command  all  its  resources.  I  say  it  again,  who 
dare  hurt  me?  It  is  something  to  feel  thus  fearless.  Other 
women  are  protected  by  love  and  home — I  am  alone,  yet  not 
undefended,  for  I  have  money,  a  cold  substitute  for  love ;  but 
never  mind,  darling,  I  regret  nothing.  Every  woman's  venture 
on  that  sea  is  not  a  safe  one ;  what  is,  is  best." 

Mrs.  Gervoise  sank  back  on  the  pillow  and  wrung  her  hands. 
"You  are  thinking  of  Gilbert?"  she  said.  "Of  Gilbert  who 
has  forsaken  you,  and  I  am  thinking  of  Gilbert's  father  and 
brother  who  are  leagued  against  you.  Beatrice  !  Beatrice  !  you 
will  believe  me  when  it  is  too  late  ! " 

Beatrice  had  her  own  thoughts.  She  would  not  confess 
them  ;  but  she  asked  what  Mrs.  Gervoise  wanted  her  to  do. 

"What  you  did  when  you  tried  to  deliver  poor  little  Rosy 
from  their  meshes.  Watch,  be  brave  as  well  as  vigilant.  You 
have  been  dull  of  late,  and  if  they  had  not  seen  you  so  listless, 
they  would  not  have  dared  what  they  are  now  daring.  Beatrice, 
take  your  mother's  warning  !  " 

She  had  sat  up  again,  and  Beatrice  was  struck  with  Mrs. 
Gervoise's  strange  earnestness.  It  was  like  a  wakening  of  the 
dead  to  hear  that  poor  sick  woman,  whose  thoughts  had  all  been 
of  her  complaints  and  ailings,  and  the  thermometer,  now  talk 
in  that  earnest,  solemn  way,  of  her  daughter's  peril.  A  thrill 
of  fear  shot  through  Beatrice's  brave  heart.  The  known  danger 
she  would  have  met  with  defiance,  but  the  hidden  peril  cowed 
her.  What  would  these  bad  men  do  in  their  cruel  and  cowardly 
way  against  her  ?  Her  thoughts  flew  to  Gilbert,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment sickened  her.     But  no,  he  was  safe,  surely. 

"  What  will  you  do  ?  "  asked  her  mother. 

"  I  shall  watch,  darling,"  replied  Beatrice  with  a  bright  and 
radiant  smile  ;  for  she  thought  as  she  said  it,  "  and  I  shall  write 
to  Gilbert.  And  now,"  she  resumed  aloud,  "  had  you  not  better 
leave  me  ?     You  might  be  missed  from  your  room,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  I  had  better  go  ;  but,  Beatrice,  come  with  me,  I  am 
afraid ! " 

"I  shall  go  with  you,  ay,  and  stay  till  you  are  safe  and 
sound  asleep." 

They  rose  together,  and  went  back  to  Mrs.  Gervoise's  room. 
They  found  it  quiet  and  silent.  She  got  into  bed  again,  and 
Beatrice,  as  she  had  promised,  sat  and  stayed  with  her,  until, 
wearied  by  her  long  watch,  Mrs.  Gervoise  slumbered.  Beatrice 
then  softly  stole  away  and  went  back  to  her  own  room. 


380  BEATEICE. 

It  would  soon  be  dawn,  and  daylight  would  soon  come  ; 
servants  would  arise  and  enter  the  library  and  disturb  whatever 
tokens  of  Mr.  Gervoise's  presence  might  be  left  there.  Why 
not  go  and  visit  it  at  once  ?  Was  she  not  the  mistress  of  the 
house  ?  Whom  and  what  need  she  fear  ?  She  took  a  light  and 
went  down. 

Neither  Mr.  Gervoise  nor  his  son  was  in  the  Hbrary  now ; 
but  Beatrice  almost  fancied  that  the  sound  of  her  opening  door, 
or  of  her  step  on  the  staircase,  must  have  disturbed  them,  for 
the  table  was  still  covered  with  the  books  Mrs.  Gervoise  had 
mentioned.  Beatrice's  eyes  flashed  with  resentment.  Was  no 
room  of  her  house  to  be  free  from  that  man's  hateful  intrusion? 
"  I  must  find  some  means  to  drive  him  from  Carnoosie,"  she 
thought ;  "I  must  be  free,  I  must  live,  or  death  would  be 
sweeter  than  the  life  I  lead."  She  threw  herself  in  a  chair  near 
the  table.  Mr.  Gervoise  was  not  fond  of  light  literature,  and  he 
had  been  looking  over  several  of  Beatrice's  cyclopaedias.  The 
letter  P  had,  however,  alone  had  any  attraction  for  him ;  for 
none  of  the  other  volumes  had  been  touched. 

"What  did  he  want  with  them?"  thought  Beatrice.  She 
took  up  one  of  the  volumes  and  opened  it  at  random,  and  read : 

"  This  poison,  like  many  other  vegetable  poisons,  acts  swiftly 
and  surely.  It  leaves  no  traces  behind,  unless  such  as  a  few 
hours  will  efface.  It  is  supposed  to  have  entered  largely  into 
the  aqua  tofana  of  the  Italians,  and  to  have  been  the  chief  in- 
gredient in  the  French  jpoudre  de  succession  so  celebrated  in  the 
seventeenth  century." 

,  Beatrice  looked  hastily  back  at  the  other  page,  and  found 
that  it  was  wanting ;  it  had  been  torn  out,  but  whether  recently, 
or  ere  she  had  become  mistress  of  Carnoosie,  she  could  not  tell. 
The  volume  was  one  she  had  never  opened  before.  She  looked 
at  the  others,  she  looked  for  the  word  poison,  but  she  found 
nothing  to  confirm  suspicion.  Yet  why  deny  it  ? — that  page  so 
ominously  wanting  made  Beatrice  turn  sick  and  her  blood  run 
cold.  Ay,  that  would  be  a  sure  way  to  Carnoosie.  A  few 
drops  of  that  nameless  poison  would  convert  the  most  whole- 
some nutriment  into  deadly  food,  and  end  Beatrice  Gordon,  and 
her  troubles,  and  her  cares.  In  vain  she  tried  to  master  the 
cowardly  fear.  It  overpowered  reason,  courage,  and  blinded 
her.  In  a  moment  all  the  histories  of  poisoners  and  their  deeds, 
all  the  trials  which  the  daily  press  reveals,  crowded  to  her  mind. 
And  they  were  capable  of  it.  Antony  was  piteously  cruel,  Mr. 
Gervoise  was  cautious,  but  knew  neither  fear  nor  ruth.     Show 


BEATEICE.  381 

him  the  means  of  escaping  the  law,  and  there  was  no  deed  he 
could  not  do.     And  this  poison  left  no  trace  ! 

"  I  shall  get  mad  if  I  keep  thinking  of  that  torn  page," 
thought  Beatrice.  "  And  yet  what  an  easy  and  a  ready  way  to 
Carnoosie  !  "  She  threw  open  the  window  to  escape  the  thought, 
and  it  met  her  in  the  noble  prospect  before  her.  These  stately 
gardens  and  long  avenues  which  she  saw  dimly  in  the  grey  light 
of  early  morning,  were  something  to  strive  for.  Men  and 
women  had  done  it  for  less.  The  five  pounds  of  a  burial  club 
had  been  sufficient,  and  Carnoosie,  with  its  estate  and  its  rent- 
roll,  was  surely  a  temptation  for  Antony  and  his  father. 

^  "  God  help  me  !  "  thought  Beatrice,  "  and  deliver  me  from 
the  agony  of  thoughts  like  these.  Happy  is  the  pauper  who  has 
no  wealth  to  tempt  bad  men ;  happy  is  the  'beggar-woman, 
whose  lot  none  envies.  And  must  I,  rich  and  young  as  I  am — 
must  I,  Beatrice  Gordon,  the  mistress  of  Carnoosie,  basely  yield 
my  life  because  they  want  it  ?     I  will  not." 

She  closed  the  window  ;  she  walked  up  and  down  the  room, 
revolving  how  she  might  defeat  them,  and  cheat  them  out  of 
their  opportunity.  But,  alas  !  might  they  not  poison  the  food 
on  the  table  whilst  she  was  looking  on  !  Agaiji  and  again  such 
things  had  been  done  !  "  Oh  !  I  must  forget  all  this  !  "  thought 
Beatrice  desperately,  "  I  must  forget  it !  " 

She  hurried  out  of  the  library,  as  if  that  quiet  retreat,  where 
she  had  spent  so  many  happy  hours,  were  doomed  to  jjecome 
her  grave.  She  went  back  to  her  room,  and  asked  herself, 
"What  shall  I  do?" 

"  I  shall  write  to  Gilbert,"  she  thought,  "  and  bid  him  come. 
His  presence  here  will  dispel  all  danger."  At  once  she  sat  down 
to  her  bureau,  and  wrote  from  the  fulness  of  her  heart : 

"  Gilbert,  come — I  want  you.  Trouble  and  danger  are  near 
me  ;  I  confess  I  do  not  know  under  what  form  they  will  appear, 
but  I  feel  them  at  hand.  Come — it  is  to  my  friend  I  speak.  I 
do  not  care  what  new  ties  may  have  come  between  us — ^you  are 
still  the  true  Gilbert  Gervoise  on  whom  I  can  rely  in  peril  or  in 
sorrow.  Forgive  me  if  I  cause  you  to  take  what  may  prove  a 
useless  journey,  but  I  have  endured  much  and  not  summoned 
you — even  this  letter  shall  not  go  until  some  more  certain  token 
of  its  urgent  need  has  come.  Adieu  !  if  you  should  not  answer 
this  appeal,  I  shall  lay  no  blame  to  you,  Gilbert !  You  ever 
shall  be  the  best  and  the  noblest  to  Beatrice  Gordon." 


382  BEATKIOE. 

She  wrote  no  more,  but  sat  back  in  her  chair  thinking  and 
dreaming.  She  felt  happy  to  know  that  he  would  come  to  her. 
Yes,  no  matter  how  they  might  be  divided  by  life  and  its  ties, 
once  more,  at  least,  they  would  meet  in  that  wild  waste  so  dreary 
without  him.  Once  more  she  would  feel  the  presence  of  a  friend 
able  and  willing  to  protect  and  defend  her.  Sweet,  therefore,  was 
the  danger,  whatever  it  might  be,  which  would  summon  him  to 
her  side. 

Foolish  girl !  near  half  a  year  has  passed  since  Gilbert  and 
you  have  parted.  His  faith  is  no  longer  pledged  to  you ;  the 
friend,  the  calm  counsellor  you  have,  but  the  fond  lover  may 
now  be  another  woman's.  There  are  many  fair-haired  girl*  in 
and  around  Verville,  Norman  maidens  with  the  blooming  beauty 
of  their  race,  daughters  of  rich  farmers  or  litigious  lawyers,  who 
would  be  glad  to  marry  the  young  Docteur  Gervoise,  and  to  live 
in  that  house  between  the  garden  of  roses  and  the  little  shining 
river.  Think  of  that,  Beatrice,  and  pause  ere  you  send  a  sum- 
mons that  may  call  him  away  from  a  honeymoon  or  a  courtship. 

And  Beatrice  did  think  of  it,  and,  laying  her  head  on  the 
table  above  her  clasped  hands,  she  wept,  she,  whose  tears  seldom 
flowed,  she  wept  tears  of  jealous  sorrow.  But  at  length  the 
grief  was  conquered.  She  looked  up,  and  speaking  to  herself, 
she  said  to  her  own  thoughts  : 

"  Love  is  over — ay,  over  for  ever,  or  he  had  not  relinquished 
me  so  easily.  Why  bring  him  here  ?  Will  not  Mr.  Lamb  do  ? 
His  devotion  money  can  secure,  and  it  will  not  fail  me." 

She  took  the  letter  she  had  just  written  and  burned  it  de- 
liberately ;  then  she  wrote  another — a  very  cold,  calm,  and  clear 
letter,  requesting  Mr.  Lamb's  prompt  attendance  in  Carnoosie, 
and  immediate  answer  to  one  question — ^Was  Mr.  Mortimer 
alive  or  dead  ? 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 

Mrs.  Gervoise  had  told  her  daughter  to  watch,  and  Bea- 
trice obeyed  the  behest ;  but  she  saw  nothing  to  confirm  the 
warning  she  had  received.  Danger,  if  danger  existed,  was  in- 
visible. The  sky  was  clear  and  blue,  and  the  thunder-cloud  was 
not  even  as  yet  a  speck  on  the  purple  horizon.  In  plain  speech, 
she  met  Mr.  Gervoise  at  breakfast,  and  could  not  detect  the  least 
token  of  unfriendliness,  or,  what  would  have  been  worse,  of 
friendliness  in  his  manner. 

"  Yet  I  shall  post  my  letter,"  she  thought. 

She  was  prompt  to  act  as  well  as  to  resolve,  and  she  went 
forth  at  once  on  her  errand.  The  way  to  the  post  office  lay 
along  a  quiet  lane  shaded  by  tall  trees,  where  nightingales  sang 
sweetly  in  the  pleasant  spring.  Along  that  lane  had  Beatrice 
often  wall?;ed,  telling  it  the  ever  new  story  of  her  love.  There 
was  not  a  tree,  there  was  not  a  hedge-flower,  that  had  not  heard 
the  tale.  Oh,  Beatrice  !  Beatrice  !  I  fear  much  you  were  one 
of  earth's  earthly  daughters — no  unstained  saint,  no  angel  were 
you,  but  a  poor  fond  girl,  in  whose  heart  passion  was  strong, 
and  though  not  supreme — for  you  were  pure,  Beatrice,  and  lofty 
in  your  way — at  least  very  mighty.  And  now  you  could  not 
forget,  though,  alas !  it  was  in  bitterness  that  you  now  remem- 
bered as  you  walked  along  the  path  which  no  more  led  to  love, 
though  it  recalled  love  so  vividly. 

It  is  said  of  the  dead  that  they  are  not  dead  whilst  we  re- 
member them  as  if  still  present  among  us  ;  and  love  is  not  dead 
whilst  its  first  sweet  sense  of  reality  remains  behind.  But  when 
bitterness  comes,  when  reproachful  thoughts  enter  our  vexed  and 
wearied  hearts,  love  is  dead  indeed,  or  dying  fast.  As  she 
walked  on,  Beatrice  did  not  think  of  danger  hanging  like  an  evil 
cloud  above  her  old  ancestral  home ;  she  did  not  think  of  the 
two  enemies  whose  presence  ever  defiled  it.  She  thought  of 
Verville,  of  a  parting  on  a  lonely  cliff,  of  an  adieu  which  must 
be  eternal,  of  a   face  which   she  must   see   no   more,  and   she 


384  BEATKICE. 

thought  of  it  with  infinite  bitterness.  Mr.  Lamb,  the  dearly- 
paid  solicitor,  the  law — that  cold  and  severe  friend — were  her 
defenders  now.  "  They  were  truer  than  Jove  after  all,"  thought 
Beatrice. 

"  What  matter  about  love — that  is  over.  I  must  save  my- 
self and  fight  my  hard  battle  for  that  old  Carnoosie  before  me. 
Oh  !  darling,  you  cost  me  dear,  indeed  ;  for  you  I  gave  up  love 
and  freedom,  for  you  now  I  must  strive,  but  I  will  not  grudge 
it,  my  poor  darling,  come  what  may.  And  to  the  last  I  will 
bear  with  these  men,  whilst  the  arrow  which  might  pierce  them 
must  first  pass  through  you." 

She  was  crossing  the  gates  of  Carnoosie,  and  Mr»  Gervoise 
saw  her. 

"  I  have  been  to  post  a  letter,"  said  Beatrice,  unquestioned, 
as  she  passed  by  him,  and  her  look  overflowed  with  indignant 
defiance. 

"  A  servant  could  have  done  it,  Beatrice." 

"  Ah !  but  think  of  the  pleasure  of  seeing  the  letter  drop  into 
thebox." 

"  Pity  you  cannot  see  the  reply  come  out." 

"  I  expect  a  living  reply,"  rose  to  Beatrice's  lips,  but  she  r 
was  wise  enough  not  to  utter  the  imprudent  words.  She  walked  r 
on  without  answering,  and  left  him  looking  after  her  with  a^ 
mocking  eye. 

Beatrice  had  few  means  of  information  at  her  command,  and 
these  few  she  would  not  use,  for  she  would  not  question  or  bribe 
servants.  It  was  useless  to  question  Mr.  GervQise,  he  knew 
how  to  keep  his  counsel ;  not  so  Antony,  and  for  this,  no  doubt, 
he  was  hiding  once  more.  From  him  Beatrice  could  learn  in 
some  degree  what  Mr.  Gervoise  intended,  and  what  course  he 
meant  to  pursue.  Accordingly,  on  entering  the  house,  she 
went  up  at  once  to  the  room  which  had  been  Rosy's  sitting 
apartment. 

Antony  was  not  there,  but  a  sound  in  the  next  room  be- 
trayed him,  and  in  a  clear  and  distinct  voice  Beatrice  called  him 
out. 

He  was  taken  by  surprise,  and  came  at  her  bidding.  Bea- 
trice greeted  him  standing  in  the  centre  of  the  apartment  with 
the  look  of  a  young  queen,  injured  in  her  dignity. 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  this  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Why  are  you 
here  a  second  time  without  my  knowledge  ?  " 

"I  have  just  arrived,"  replied  Antony. 

"Ah!  Antony,  Antony,  what  have  I  done  to  you?"  asked 


BEATEICE.  386 

Beatrice,  not  without  pathos  in  her  voice.  "  Why  must  I  ever 
find  you  first  and  foremost  among  my  enemies  ?  Why  are  you 
here  once  more  to  act  against  me  ?  " 

^'  Nonsense  ! "  said  Antony  impatiently.  "  What  makes  you 
think  that  ?     I  came  to  see  my  father." 

"  Why,  then,  see  him  in  secret?  Why  not  see  him  openly? 
You  cannot  answer — ^you  had  better  not.  I  know  much — too 
much — and  if  I  came  up  here,  it  was  to  tell  you  '  let  us  have 
open  war,  for  Beatrice  cannot  be  deceived  or  surprised.' " 

Antony  gave  her  a  doubtful  look. 

"  I  don't  know  why  you  speak  so,"  he  said,  at  length.  "  You 
have  been,  my  enemy,  helping  my  wife  to  run  away  from  me, 
and  all  that,  and  I  have  never  injured  you." 

"  Because  you  could  not,  Antony,  and  you  cannot  even  now. 
Right  is  strong,  and  I  am  tlie  mistress  of  Carnoosie." 

"Who  said  you  were  not?"  doggedly  replied  Antony,  and 
turning  his  head  away  from  her,  he  sat  down  and  slapped  his 
black  kid  gloves  on  his  knee. 

Beatrice  was  keen  and  quick ;  the  truth  she  had  been  seek- 
ing for  came  to  her  like  a  flash  of  lightning,  and  Antony's  black 
gloves  told  it  to  her.  Black  he  never  wore  unless  when  he  could 
not  help  it.  He  was  in  mourning,  then ;  who  was  dead  ?  She 
smiled  a  bitter  smile,  and  said  proudly  : 

"  I  am  the  mistress  of  Carnoosie,  and  Carnoosie  shall  never 
be  yoiirs,  although  Mr.  Mortimer  is  dead  I " 

The  defiant  smile  with  which  Antony  had  heard  her  vanished 
as  she  deUberately  uttered  the  last  words.  He  stared  at  her  in 
sullen  surprise. 

"  Give  up  your  evil  purpose  before  I  defeat  it,"  continued 
Beatrice,  very  calmly.  "  Your  wife  is  my  heiress  now,  but  I 
am  young,  I  shall  outlive  your  father  and  you,  and  what  is  more, 
I  shall  marry  if  need  be,  and  give  other  heirs  to  Carnoosie." 

"Who  said  I  wanted  it?"  asked  Antony,  looking  no  whit 
disconcerted.  "  A  pretty  thing  to  be  heir  to  a  woman  of  twenty- 
one  !     Do  you  think  me  a  fool.  Miss  Gordon  ?  " 

"  I  think  you  my  mortal  enemy,  and  capable  of  every  iniquity 
and  every  wrong  to  attain  your  ends,"  answered  Beatrice,  her 
bright  eyes  flashing ;  but  I  tell  you  that,  though  alone,  I  am 
strong,  and  that  you  shall  not  defeat  me  whilst  God  befriends  the 
good  ri^ht." 

She  spoke  with  a  fervour  that  brought  the  pure  blood  to  her 
cheek,  and  made  her  very  handsome.  Antony  was  both  cowed 
and  dazzled.  His  blue  eyes  softened  as  they  dwelt  on  Beatrice's 
17 


886  BEATRICE. 

sweet  and  yet  defiant  face.  Ay !  this  was  sometliing  instead  of 
that  pale,  pining  Kosy,  with  her  reproachful  eyes  and  her  weari- 
some weeping. 

"  Oh  !  Beatrice  !  Beatrice  !  "  he  said,  drawing  toward  her, 
"  why  are  we  divided?  Why  would  you  not  have  me ?  I  shall 
never  find  another  girl  like  you  !  " 

"  Are  you  a  widower?"  asked  Beatrice,  with  icy  coldness. 

"  I  wish  I  were,"  almost  savagely  replied  Antony ;  "I  am 
sick  of  her,  Beatrice ;  I  wish  she  would  run  away  again,  but 
with  some  one,  and  then  I  would  divorce  her.  Beatrice,  I  have 
tried  it,  and  I  cannot  bear  it.  I  am  like  a  boy  between  her  and 
her  father,  with  my  misdeeds,  as  they  call  them,  ever  thrown  in 
my  teeth." 

Beatrice  nodded. 

"  I  see,"  she  said,  "  the  rein  and  bit  are  hard  to  bear,  and  so 
you  want  my  Carnoosie.  You  shall  never  get  it,  Antony,  never  ! " 
she  added,  with  another  defiant  smile,  which  roused  all  his  dor- 
mant passion. 

"  I  can't  help  it,"  he  said  angrily  ;  "  you  would  not  have  me, 
and  you  are  in  my  way,  and  must  go  to  the  wall,  Beatrice.  And 
yet  it  is  a  pity,"  he  added,  the  longing  of  his  old  love,  such  as  it 
was,  wakening  once  more,  "  you  are  so  handsome  and  so  spirited, 
so  thoroughbred,  Beatrice,  that  it  irritates  one  not  to  have  had 
you,  and  it  would  have  been  so  easy.  But  you  wouldn't,  and  so 
you  must  suffer.  And  I  will  have  Carnoosie,"  he  added,  with  his 
bad  laugh,  "  I  will  have  it,  Beatrice,  though  I  could  not  have  its 
young  mistress." 

"  Thank  you,  Antony,  for  saying  it  at  length,"  replied  Bea- 
trice, turning  away.  "  You  are  your  father's  son  in  badness,  but 
not  in  guile.  He  would  never  have  confessed  so  much.  Thank 
you,  I  say,  I  have  won  my  object  in  coming  up  here  to-day ;  you 
have  told  me  your  end,  and,  Antony,  you  will  find  me  a  match 
for  you,  and  you  shall  no  more  get  Carnoosie  than  you  got 
me." 

She  nodded  at  him,  and  was  gone. 

"  And  now,  what  is  it  they  want?  "  thought  Beatrice,  stop- 
ping short  on  the  staircase  ;  "  it  is — it  must  be  my  life — oh  !  my 
darling — my  poor  darling — must  I  then  turn  them  out,  and  for- 
sake you,  to  save  myself?  " 

The  luncheon  bell  rang  as  she  came  to  this  dreary  conclusion. 
She  heard  it  with  a  start.  "Would  they  do  it  to-day  ? — it  was  not 
likely — ^this  morning ;  it  was  next  to  impossible  ?  No — she  was 
still  safe. 


BEATRICE.  387 

Calmly  enough  she  entered  the  dining-room.  Mrs.  Gervoise 
was  too  unwell  to  come  down.  Mr.  Gervoise,  however,  enjoyed 
his  usual  health  and  appetite,  and  was  present,  but  not  Antony. 
At  once  Beatrice  asked  why  he  was  not  there. 

Without  showing  the  least  surprise,  Mr.  Gervoise  rang  the 
bell,  and  asked  for  his  son,  who  soon  appeared,  and  took  his 
place  in  sullen  silence.  He  looked  pale  and  troubled.  "  Perhaps 
it  is  to  be  this  morning,  and  that  he  would  rather  not  be  present," 
thought  Beatrice  bitterly ;  "  yes,  it  would  be  pleasanter  not  to  see 
it  done." 

The  meal  began.  Of  late  Mr.  Gervoise  had  never  helped 
Beatrice  at  table  ;  he  now  did  so  for  the  first  time  ;  she  thanked 
him,  though  she  played  with  her  fork  on  her  plate,  she  did  not 
touch  the  food,  a  French  fricassee,  until  she  saw  him  partake  of 
it ;  then  she  ate,  but  as  she  did  so,  she  thought :  "  He  is  giving 
me  the  habit  of  being  helped  by  him,  so  that  I  shall  not  think  it 
strange  when  the  time  comes.  I  wonder  if  he  has  got  the 
poison." 

Mr.  Gervoise  never  went  out.  If  he  liked  Carnoosie,  none 
could  deny  him  the  praise  of  liking  it  well.  Its  boundaries  suf- 
ficed amply  to  his  happiness,  such  as  that  was,  but  on  this  day 
Mr.  Gervoise  no  doubt  required  change  of  scene,  for  he  went  out 
on  foot,  and  alone. 

"  He  dare  not  purchase  poison  in  the  neighbourhood," 
thought  Beatrice  ;  "  and  yet  if  it  leaves  no  trace  !  " 

Mr.  Gervoise  remained  the  whole  day  out.  Where  had  he 
been  ?  To  London  perhaps,  there  and  back  again.  His  depar- 
ture and  his  return  coincided  with  the  express  trains. 

"  Mr.  Lamb  cannot  be  here  before  to-morrow  evening," 
thought  Beatrice  ;  "  perhaps  all  will  be  over  then.  Why  do  I 
not  fly  from  the  house  ?  " 

It  seemed  as  if  every  thing  were  meant  to  confirm  the  fright- 
ful thought  which  had  taken  possession  of  her  mind.  Mrs.  Ger- 
voise was  very  unwell.  In  going  up  to  her,  Beatrice  had  to  pass 
by  Mr.  Gervoise's  study.  The  door  was  ajar,  and  through  the 
opening  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  him  ;  he  stood  with  his  back  to 
her  and  his  face  turned  to  the  light,  holding  up  a  small  phial  as 
if  examining  it.  It  was  a  chemist's  phial,  and  there  was  a  label 
upon  it,  and-Mr.  Gervoise,  as  Beatrice  saw,  was  tearing  the  label 
off.  She  saw  no  more,  perhaps  the  rustle  of  her  dress  had  be- 
trayed her.  He  closed  the  door,  and,  as  Beatrice  heard,  he 
locked  it. 

Her  heart  sickened  within  her.     She  retraced  her  steps,  and 


388  BEATRICE. 

went  out  into  the  open  air ;  she  needed  its  freshness,  though  a 
fine  autumn  rain  was  falling.  The  thought  of  having  to  fight  for 
her  life  disheartened  her.  She  felt  inert,  lifeless,  caring  for 
nothing  and  no  one. 

As  she  stood  thus  on  the  terrace,  Antony  met  her.  He  gave 
her  a  quick  look,  and,  as  he  passed,  he  whispered,  "  take  care  !  " 

Beatrice  heard  him  distinctly  and  soon  overtook  him. 

"  What  did  you  say ! "  she  asked,  taking  hold  of  his  arm. 

"  I  said  nothing,"  he  boldly  replied. 

"  You  did — you  said  '  Take  care,'  and  I  ask  what  was  your 
meaning?  What  should  I  fear?  what  should  I  take  care  of  here, 
in  my  own  house  ?  " 

"  You  mistake,  I  said  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  do  not  see  how 
I  could.  Why  should  you  take  care  here  in  your  own  house,  as 
you  say  ?  " 

Beatrice  let  his  arm  go  with  a  sigh. 

"  I  have  appealed  to  you  for  the  last  time,"  she  said ;  "  there 
is  neither  pity  nor  shame  in  you.  Go  your  way,  as  I  henceforth 
shall  go  mine.  I  would  rather  perish  ten  times  than  appeal  to 
you." 

Antony  did  not  reply.  He  hung  his  head  and  walked  awaj', 
looking  ashamed  and  downcast ;  and  Beatrice,  feeling  brave  and 
strong  once  more,  went  up  to  her  mother.  Doctor  Rogerson  was 
with  Mrs.  Gervoise. 

"  How  do  you  find  mamma  to-day,  doctor,"  asked  Beatrice. 

Doctor  Rogerson  looked  rather  grave. 

"  I  find  her  excitable  and  feverish.  She  is  not  well,  Miss 
Gordon." 

Beatrice  gave  him  a  frightened  look.  Was  her  mother  in 
danger  ?     Doctor  Rogerson's  face  seemed  to  say  so. 

"  Come  this  evening,"  she  said  eagerly. 

"  I  do  not  think  it  absolutely  necessary ;  but  if  you  wish  for 
it." 

"  I  do,"  she  interrupted,  with  the  same  eagerness.  She 
longed  to  speak  to  him  alone,  but  did  not  dare  to  follow  him  out, 
for  Mrs.  Gervoise  was  watching  her. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Gervoise  when  he  was  gone,  "  you 
will  soon  be  free,  and  all  your  troubles  will  be  over ;  the  end  is 
coming — I  feel  it — ^I  know  it — ^be  patient  a  little  while  longer  ;  it 
will  soon  be  over." 

"  Darling,  do  you  want  to  break  my  heart?" 

"  No  ;  but  be  patient  a  little  longer.  Your  face  frightened 
me  when  you  came  in  just  now— do  not  quarrel  with  them,  if  you 
can  help  it."  ■* 


BEATEICE.  389 

"  My  darling,"  said  Beatrice,  taking  her  hand,  "  what  have  I 
said  or  done  to  deserve  this  ?— do  you  not  know  that  I  will  bear 
every  thing  for  your  sake  ?  " 

"  Beatrice,  I  am  a  coward ;  but  I  should  not  like  to  die  away 
from  you — well,  do  not  cry,  child,  I  will  say  no  more — ^there, 
that  is  the  dinner-beU  ;  go  down  to  them,  or  they  will  think  I  am 
plotting  with  you." 

Beatrice'^  brow  knit.  Was  her  mother  unconsciously  sending 
her  down  to  her  fate  ?  She  looked  at  the  poor  lady,  who  seemed 
very  ill  indeed,  and  she  drearily  wondered,  "  Which  of  us  two 
shall  outlive  the  other  ?  Oh  !  my  darling,  if  you  knew  of  what 
kind  is  the  danger  you  foretold  ! " 

But  she  went  down  after  all.  They  were  waiting  for  her. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  Antony's  eyes  could  not  meet  hers.  Mr. 
Gervoise,  on  the  contrary,  was  particularly  gracious.  "  It  would 
be  like  him  to  fondle  and  murder,"  thought  Beatrice. 

M.  Panel  excelled  in  a  Sole  Normande,  and  Mr.  Gervoise 
was  fond  of  it.  This  day  it  figured  on  the  table.  Beatrice  was 
struck  with  the  look  Antony  gave  it  as  the  servant  placed  it 
before  her.  "Is  it  this  dish— -does  he  know?"  she  thought. 
With  an  abrupt  motion  she  placed  some  of  its  contents  on  his 
plate,  which  Antony  handed  at  once,  and  without  a  word,  to  the 
servant.  Beatrice  looked  at  him  fixedly ;  he  tried  to  laugh,  and 
said: 

"These  made-up  dishes  do  not  suit  me." 

"  I  believe  this  is  a  favorite  of  yours,  Mr.  Gervoise,"  observed 
Beatrice,  helping  him. 

"  Will  you  take  none?"  he  asked. 

Beatrice  smiled. 

"I  rarely  touch  it,  but  I  will  eat  some  to-day,"  and  she 
helped  herself  too ;  but  as  she  did  so,  she  glanced  stealthily  at 
father  and  son.  Antony  was  watching  her  intently,  Mr.  Ger- 
voise never  looked  at  her,  but  neither  did  he  eat ;  for  once  the 
Sole  Norrtiande  tempted  him  not.  Beatrice  took  a  mouthful, 
then  put  it  down,  untasted,  with  a  shudder  of  horror. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  not  well,"  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  "  or,  per- 
haps, your  selection  was  not  judicious — allow  me  to  recommend 
this  morsel." 

"  Thank  you,  I  am  satisfied  with  what  is  on  my  plate." 

"  Nay,  but  allow  me.  I  am  sure  this  is  so  much  more  deli- 
cate." 

Beatrice  allowed  him  to  heap  her  plate ;  then,  pushing  it 
away  firom  her,  she  said,  with  cold  irony : 


390  BEATRICE. 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Gervoise,  but  this  food  is  poisoned !" 

"  Poisoned ! "  screamed  Mr.  Gervoise  ;  "  good  heavens  !  are 
we  poisoned?" 

Beatrice  did  not  answer  him,  but  rose,  and  left  the  room, 
and,  as  she  did  so,  met  the  amazed  look  of  the  servant  carving 
at  the  side-table.  She  went  up  to  her  own  room.  She  felt 
thirsty,  sick,  and  faint ;  she  poured  herself  out  a  glass  of  water, 
then  threw  it  away,  and  emptied  her  decanter.  She  put  on  her 
hat  and  cloak,  and,  hiding  the  decanter  under  it,  she  stole  softly 
down,  and  went  out  into  the  grey,  damp  evening,  to  the  spring  in 
the  orchard.  She  heard  more  than  she  saw  it,  rippling  along 
between  two  grassy  banks  ;  and,  stooping,  she  filled  the  flask 
with  the  pure  water,  which  treason  had  not  defiled,  then  softly 
as  she  had  left  it  she  returned  to  the  house.  When  she  entered 
the  room  she  found  it  tenanted  by  Brownson,  her  mother's  maid, 
who  stood  with  a  light  in  her  hand,  looking  curiously  at  the 
toilet-table,  whence  the  decanter,  which  Miss  Gordon  always  kept 
there  full  of  spring  water,  was  missing.  She  turned  round  with 
a  guilty  look  on  hearing  Beatrice,  and  said  hurriedly : 

"  I  came  to  tell  you,  ma'am,  that  Dr.  Rogerson  is  below." 

"  Very  well.  Tell  him  I  feel  unwell,  and  ask  him  to  come 
in  here  to  me  before  he  goes  to  my  mother." 

Brownson  went,  leaving  the  light  behind  her.  When  Beatrice 
had  heard  her  going  down,  and  not  till  then,  she  poured  herself 
out  a  glass  of  water,  and  drank  eagerly. 

Feverishly  and  anxiously  she  waited  for  Doctor  Rogerson.  It 
was  a  long  time  before  he  came,  at  least  Beatrice  thought  so. 
At  length  a  tap  at  her  door  was  followed  by  the  entrance  of 
Brownson,  saying: 

"  Please,  ma'am,  here  is  Doctor  Rogerson." 

Beatrice  rose,  and  tried  to  be  calm.  She  was  sure  Mr.  Ger- 
voise had  been  talking  to  him.  Did  they  want  to  make  him  an 
accomplice?  The  man  could  be  bought,  but  could  he  be  bought 
to  a  crime  ?  She  looked  hard  at  him  without  speaking,  and  her 
look  was  so  expressive  of  mistrust  and  dislike,  that  Doctor  Rog- 
erson coloured  and  stammered  rather  than  he  asked  how  she 
was. 

"  I  feel  feverish,  and  my  head  aches,"  replied  Beatrice. 

Doctor  Rogerson  felt  her  pulse,  put  a  few  more  questions, 
and  asked  Brownson,  still  standing  in  the  room,  for  pen  and  ink. 

"  What  for?"  inquired  Beatrice. 

"  To  write  a  prescription,  Miss  Gordon." 

'^'^  I  understand — ^Brownson,  leave  the  room.     Doctor,"  she 


BEATEICE.  391 

added,  as  the  door  closed  upon  her,  "  you  need  not  write,  I  will 
take  nothing  you  prescribe  unless  you  bring  it  yourself.  From 
your  own  hands  I  will  take  it — not  otherwise." 

"  Madam  ! "  exclaimed  Doctor  Rogerson,  looking,  as  Beatrice 
thought,  conscious  and  confused. 

"  I  have  said  it,  and  I  repeat  it.  I  am  unwell  because  I 
scarcely  ate  this  day ;  and  if  I  did  not  eat  in  my  own  house,  it 
is  because  the  food  placed  before  me  was  poisoned.  It  was 
poisoned,  Doctor  Rogerson — I  saw  it  in  their  two  guilty  faces, 
and  I  will  not  touch  a  drop  of  medicine  which  might  pass  through 
their  hands." 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  madam,  think,  reflect  before  you  say 
such  terrible  things ! "  exclaimed  Doctor  Rogerson,  pale  with 
emotion  ;  "  do  not  speak  so,  especially  to  me." 

"And  why  especially  to  you.  Doctor? — ^because  they  will 
question  you  when  you  leave  this  room.  I  tell  you  I  am  reck- 
less. The  house  is  mine,  and  I  will  not  be  murdered  in  it  if  I 
can  help  it." 

"  My  dear  madam,"  entreated  Doctor  Rogerson,  "  if  not  for 
your  own  sake,  at  least  for  mine,  be  silent.  Think — ^but  do  not 
speak  ;  tell  me  nothing." 

He  trembled  from  head  to  foot.  Beatrice  looked  at  him  long 
without  speaking.  It  was  plain  this  man  knew  something,  but 
how  had  they  dared  to  take  him  into  their  confidence  ?  It  was 
frightful  and  incredible.  Her  brain  ached  with  the  effort  to  pen- 
etrate this  mystery. 

"  Doctor  Rogerson,"  she  said  at  length,  "  what  do  you  know? 
what  have  they  told  you?" 

"  My  dear  madam,  you  do  not  suppose — you  cannot  think — " 
here  Doctor  Rogerson  paused,  unable  to  continue ;  "  indeed," 
he  added,  after  a  brief  pause,  "I  have  nothing  to  say — nothing 
of  the  kind  you  mean.     On  my  word,  I  have  not." 

"  Doctor  Rogerson,  I  leave  it  to  your  conscience  how  you 
deal  with  me.  I  have  never  injured  you.  I  would  willingly 
benefit  you  if  I  could.  I  do  harm  to  none,  and  good  to  some  ; 
but  I  stand  between  greed  and  its  prey,  and  I  am  to  be  sacrificed 
if  it  can  be  done  safely.  Again  I  say  I  leave  it  to  your  con- 
science, and  as  you  deal  by  me  so  will  you  and  yours  be  dealt  by 
one  day.  And  now,". she  added,  calmly,  " let  us  go  in  to  my 
mother." 

Doctor  Rogerson  bowed  and  looked  affected,  but  he  did  not 
reply.  Beatrice  took  the  light,  and  showed  him  into  her  mother's 
room. 


392  BEATEICE. 

"  What  have  you  and  Doctor  Rogerson  been  talking  about?" 
eagerly  asked  Mrs.  Gervoise  ;  "  what  is  it,  Beatrice  ? — what 
is  it?" 

She  sat  up,  and  turned  her  feverish,  glittering  eyes  from  one 
to  the  other. 

"I  feel  unwell,  darling,"  replied  Beatrice,  trying  to  look 
cheerful,  "  and  I  asked  Doctor  Rogerson  to  come  to  me  first. 
How  are  you? — how  do  you  feel  ?" 

"  Very  strangely — ^very  strangely — ^not  well !  I  wish  you 
would  let  me  tell  you  all  I  feel,  Doctor  Eogerson  ! " 

"  Certainly,  my  dear  madam."  He  sat  down  and  listened  to 
her,  and  smiled,  and  shook  his  head,  and  after  hearing  her  out, 
said  quietly : 

"  You  want  repose,  my  dear  madam,  mental  and  bodily  re- 
pose." 

It  was  to  her  that  he  spoke,  but  at  Beatrice  that  he  looked, 
and  Beatrice  knew  his  meaning.  Her  mother's  mind  must  not 
be  disturbed,  and  Beatrice  indeed  felt  no  inclination  to  impart  to 
her  the  dark  suspicion  which  had  sent  her  fasting  from  her  own 
table. 

When  Doctor  Rogerson  was  gone — and  he  soon  left,  promis- 
ing to  call  the  next  morning,  Beatrice,  though  faint  and  feverish 
and  weary,  compelled  herself  to  stay  with  Mrs.  Gervoise,  and 
even  to  be  gay  and  cheerful,  until  the  sick  lady  fell  asleep.  Her 
daughter  then  softly  withdrew,  and,  locking  herself  up  in  her 
own  room,  ate  a  few  biscuits  which  had  been  forgotten  there 
since  the  morning.  Whatever  her  suspicions  might  be,  pride 
would  not  let  her  confess  them  to  the  servants. 

It  was  late  when  she  slept  and  late  when  she  awoke.  As 
soon  as  she  was  dressed  she  went  to  her  mother's  room,  and  was 
struck  with  the  change  she  found  in  her. 

Mrs.  Gervoise  said  she  was  better,  but  her  sunken  eyes  belied 
the  assertion. 

"Doctor  Rogerson  has  been  here,  and  says  I  am  no  worse," 
she  remarked,  noticing  perhaps  her  daughter's  scared  look. 

"And  why  did  he  leave  without  seeing  me?"  asked  Bea- 
trice, quickly. 

She  put  that  question  to  Brownson,  who  answered  glibly : 

"Please,  miss.  Doctor  Rogerson,  on  learning  you  were  asleep, 
said  that  was  better  than  medicine,  and  would  not  let  me  waken 
you." 

This  was  too  plausible  by  far. 

"  Go  and  see  if  he  is  gone." 


BEATEIOE.  393 

Brownson  went  to  see.  She  soon  came  back.  Doctor  Roger- 
son  was  gone  ;  but  Brownson  brought  an  official-looking  letter, 
which,  after  bidding  her  leave  the  room,  Beatrice  opened  with  a 
beating  heart. 

It  was  a  gloomy  letter  indeed.  Mr.  Lamb  was  dead,  and 
Mr.  Lamb's  partner,  who  gave  her  the  news,  added  the  informa- 
tion, which  Beatrice  scarcely  needed,  that  Mr.  Mortimer  had 
been  dead  ten  days.  As  Beatrice  had  expressly  requested  that 
Mr.  Lamb  should  send  no  substitute,  his  late  partner  and  suc- 
cessor, Mr.  Brown,  had  not  come  down  to  her. 

"  Beatrice,  what  has  happened  ?  "  cried  Mrs.  Gervoise,  sitting 
up  in  her  bed,  and  frightened  at  Beatrice's  face. 

"  My  last  stay  is  gone,"  said  Beatrice,  drearily  :  "  Mr.  Mor- 
timer is  dead,  and  Rosy  is  my  heiress,  and  Mr.  Lamb  is  dead 
too,  and  cannot  come.  I  am  alone,  my  darling,  and  it  must  be 
a  battle." 

Mrs.  Gervoise  sank  back  in  a  fainting  fit  so  long  and  deep 
that  Beatrice  bitterly  regretted  her  imprudent  words.  When  she 
at  length  rallied  her  daughter  looked  cheerful  and  said : 

"  Why,  darling,  you  ought  to  have  known  me  better  than  to 
mind  me,  and  you  have  frightened  me,  and  I  shall  go  for  Doctor 
Roger  son." 

"  Send  for  him,  dear." 

"  No,  darling,  I  must  go  myself." 

Her  tone,  though  calm,  was  very  resolute.  Mrs.  Gervoise 
gave  her  a  pitiful  look,  but  did  not  oppose  her  departure. 

11* 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

Doctor  Rogerson  was  closing  the  garden  gate  of  his  cot- 
tage as  Beatrice  came  up  the  path.     He  started  on  seeing  her. 

With  a  smile  she  went  up  to  him  and  said : 

"  The  world  is  all  going*wrong,  doctor,  for  your  patient  comes 
to  see  you." 

The  world  was  all  going  wrong  indeed  if  the  visit  of  a  cured 
patient  could  make  Doctor  Rogerson  look  as  he  looked  when 
Beatrice  spake  thus.  "^ 

"  I  am  very  happy '*  he  began. 

"  Then,  indeed,  your  looks  belie  your  words,"  interrupted 
Beatrice.  "Doctor  Rogerson,  how  is  my  mother? — I  find  her 
very  unwell.     Is  there  danger  ?  " 

"  Not  immediate  danger — ^yet  I  am  uneasy  about  her." 

"  Come  again.  Doctor  Rogerson,  slje  has  had  a  fainting  fit 
since  you  left." 

*'  Miss  Gordon,  I  can  do  nothing.  In  Mrs.  Gervoise's  com- 
plaint science  is  at  fault." 

Beatrice's  lip  quivered. 

"  Do  you — do  you  think  the  end  is  coming?"  she  asked. 

"  I  fear  it,  but  yet  I  hope  not." 

"  You  fear  it,  and  you  have  told  Mr.  Gervoise  so — do  not 
deny  it — ^you  have  told  him.  Oh !  my  poor  darling,  live  long  to 
defeat  them." 

"  Miss  Gordon — "  began  Doctor  Rogerson,  with  evident  un- 
easiness. 

"  Doctor  Rogerson,  why  did  you  not  ask  to  see  me  tliis  morn- 
ing?" interrupted  Beatrice. 

"  I  heard  you  were  asleep  and  better." 

She  fastened  her  dark,  keen  eyes  on  his  face.  Then,  sud- 
denly going  up  to  him,  she  took  his  arm  and  led  him^  into  the 
green  paddock  where  he  and  Mr.  Gervoise  had  held  their  memo- 
rable conversation. 


BEATRICE.  -   395 

"  Not  here,  Miss  Gordon,  I  entreat  you  ! "  implored  Doctor 
Rogerson. 

"  Where,  then?"  asked  Beatrice,  in  the  tone  of  one  who  was 
not  going  to  relinquish  her  prey. 

"  In  the  house,"  agitatedly  answered  Doctor  Rogerson,  lead- 
ing her  back  to  the  cottage. 

They  entered  it  together.  The  front  parlour  was  vacant,  and 
Doctor  Rogerson  showed  Miss  Gordon  into  a  small  back  room. 

"  Doctor  Rogerson,"  said  Beatrice,  standing  near  the  door, 
so  as  to  preclude  all  hope  of  escape,  "  you  shall  not  leave  this 
room  until  I  know  what  is  plotting  against  me — you  know  it,  and 
you  shall  tell  me.  Against  all  evil  consequences  of  your  confes- 
sion I  promise  beforehand  that  I  will  shield  you,  but  the  truth  I 
must  and  will  know.  As  you  are  a  Christian  and  a  gentleman, 
you  must  help  to  save  me." 

"Miss  Gordon,"  said  Doctor  Rogerson,  "you  speak  as  if  I 
were  guilty,  or  your  enemy ;  whereas,  if  it  were  not  for  me,  you 
would  not  be  standing  here  to-day." 

"  Then  I  was  not  mistaken  after  all — they  wanted  you  to  get 
them  the  poison  ?  " 

Doctor  Rogerson's  pale  face  flushed. 

"  No  one  would  have  dared  to  speak  of  that  to  me,"  he  said 
indignantly  ;  "  and  yet  I  was  not  surprised  to  hear  you  talk  of  it 
yesterday,  it  was  part  of  the  plan,  and,  unfortunately,  you  fell 
into  the  trap  at  once." 

Beatrice  looked  at  him  in  mute  surprise.  What  new  unsus- 
pected danger  was  this  ? 

"  Miss  Gordon,  you  must  not  be  offended  at  what  I  am  going 
to  say,"  continued  Doctor  Rogerson  ;  "  but  you  have  brought  on 
yourself  a  great  peril,  and  fortunate  indeed  will  you  be  if  you  es- 
cape it  without  having  first  to  suffer  keenly  for  your  imprudence." 

"Peril!  what  peril?" 

"  That  of  imprisonment  in  a  mad-house,"  replied  Doctor 
Rogerson. 

Beatrice  looked  astounded,  then  smiled  incredulously. 

"  Imprison  me  as  a  mad  woman !"  she  said,  in  great  scorn. 
"  Doctor  Rogerson,  you  know  I  am  not  mad." 

"  Yes,  Miss  Gordon,  I  know  it ;  and  yet  for  all  that  I  have 
the  power  of  sending  you  to  a  mad-house,  and  for  the  last  week 
I  have  refused  to  sign  the  order  that  would  do  it.  I  have  refused 
it,  with  ruin  hanging  over  my  head ;  but  will  another?" 

Brave  as  she  was,  Beatrice  shivered  with  fear  as  she  heard 
him.     Oh !    this  was  worse  than  death  a  thousand  times,  this 


BEATRICE. 

slow,  lingering  torture  of  years ;  and  yet,  and  spite  tlie  first 
shock,  the  impossibility  of  the  deed  was  again  her  ruling  con- 
viction. 

"  No,  Doctor  Rogerson,"  she  said,  "  no  man  will  sign  the 
order  that  would  consign  me  to  a  living  grave.  I  am  in  the  full 
possession  of  my  senses,  and  there  is  not  the  shadow  of  a  proof 
against  me^." 

Doctor  Rogerson  remained  silent. 

"  God  help  me  !"  cried  Beatrice,  in  anguish.  "  You  do  not 
mean  to  say  I  am  insane?" 

"  No,  but  they  could  make  out  a  strong  case,  and  if  they  do 
not  get  you  locked  up,  they  may  yet  prevent  you  from  marriage, 
from  spending  and  enjoying  your  own.  In  short,  from  all  the 
acts  of  civil  life." 

"But  on  what  grounds?"  cried  Beatrice,  desperately ;  "on 
what  grounds  ?  I  am  sane,  and  surely  I  could  prove  it.  You 
would  come  forward  and  say  that  I  am  not  mad ;  you  would 
come  forward  and  denounce  them." 

"  Miss  Gordon,  I  cannot  appear.  I  have  betrayed  them  to 
you — I  will  do  no  more.  I  will  do  nothing  against  you — ask  for 
no  more." 

He  spoke  doggedly.  Beatrice  saw  there  was  more  behind, 
and  that  Doctor  Rogerson  was  not  stainless  enough  to  bear  the 
light  of  broad  day. 

"  Be  it  so,"  she  said,  indignantly ;  "  be  it  so.  I  shall  find 
other  testimony." 

"Whose?"  asked  Doctor  Rogerson ;  "that  of  servants 
bought  by  your  enemy ;  of  the  footman  who  heard  you  saying 
the  food  on  the  table  was  poisoned ;  of  Brownson,  who  saw  you 
bringing  water  from  the  spring  in  the  orchard,  lest  that  in  your 
room  should  have  been  tampered  with  ;  of  John,  who  went  with 
you  at  night  to  see  Mr.  Stone  ;  of  Mr.  Stone  himself,  who  tried 
to  find  out  from  me  if  you  were  mad  or  not — ^heaven  knows  for 
what  reason  ?  Miss  Gordon,  you  have  lived  away  from  society, 
and  there  are  many  of  its  ways  and  forms  which  want  of  knowl- 
edge makes  you  infringe,  and  this  the  world  often  calls  insanity  ; 
you  are  eccentric,  too,  and  independent,  and,  forgive  the  liberty 
I  take,  you  are  wilful.  All  this  is  stored  up  against  you  ;  more- 
over, no  one  knows  you,  and  Mr.  Gervoise  has  not  lost  an  oppor- 
tunity of  proclaiming  you  insane.  Of  course  you  never  heard  of 
it,  but  it  is  the  common  talk  of  the  country.  Your  conviction 
that  your  life  was  attempted,  and  the  imprudence  with  which  you 
expressed  it,  have  strengthened  his  case  considerably.     I  do  not 


BEATRICE.  397 

say  he  will  prevail,  but  I  say  you  are  in  danger,  and  that  you 
will  have  a  hard  battle  to  fight." 

Beatrice's  face  had  been  downcast  whilst  Doctor  Rogerson 
spoke  ;  she  now  raised  it,  it  was  pale  but  resolute. 

"  Doctor  Rogerson,"  she  said,  "  let  me  first  assure  you,  that, 
even  though  you  have  not  been  quite  my  friend  in  this  matter, 
yet  that  for  this  warning  I  am  grateful  to  you,  and  will  prove 
my  gratitude.  Next  let  me  tell  you  that  I  will  show  you  what 
good  right  can  do  unaided.  It  is  a  hard  battle  that  lies  before 
me,  I  feel  and  know  it ;  and  yet.  Doctor  Eogerson,  I  shall  pre- 
vail— ^you  will  see  it." 

She  opened  the  door  as  she  spoke,  and  in  the  front  parlour 
she  found  Mr.  Gervoise  and  his  son,  who  had  that  moment  en- 
tered it.  The  guilty  start  Antony  gave  on  seeing  her  could  alone 
have  confirmed  Doctor  Rogerson's  tale,  had  Beatrice  doubted  it, 
but  she  did  not ;  and  on  the  information  he  had  given  her  she  at 
once  acted. 

"  Mr.  Gervoise,"  she  said,  "  there  has  been  in  my  life  an  act 
of  egregious  folly,  and  that  has  been  allowing  you  to  live  in  my 
house  once  I  became  its  legal  mistress.  Enter  it  no  more  ;  your 
son  and  you  will  find  its  doors  closed  for  ever  against  you.  No 
consideration  will  make  me  alter  this  resolve.  You  are  bent  on 
my  ruin — accomplish  it  if  you  can  !  I  wiU  not  at  least  lend  you 
arms  to  act  against  me." 

If  Mr.  Gervoise's  bleared  eyes  had  possessed  the  fabled  pow- 
ers attributed  to  the  glance  of  the  basilisk,  Beatrice  would  assu- 
redly not  have  survived  that  speech.  He  smiled,  and  staring  at 
her,  he  said : 

"  You  are  mad.  Miss  Gordon,  and  I  will  prove  it.  I  tell  you 
that  you  are  mad  ;  insanity  is  in  your  blood,  and  shows  itself  in 
your  bearing  and  your  actions.  Doctor  Rogerson,  you  know 
this  is  a  mad  woman,  and  I  will  call  on  you  to  prove  that  she 
accused  me  of  poisoning  her.  She  is  mad — you  are  mad, 
madam ! " 

He  spoke  in  his  grand  disdainful  way,  but  Beatrice  heard  him 
with  a  calm  brow. 

"  Good-bye  to  you  both,"  she  said  as  she  crossed  the  thresh- 
old of  the  house  and  stepped  out  into  the  garden,  "  you  have  seen 
your  last  of  Camoosie." 

Mrs.  Gervoise  was  sighing  with  impatience  and  weariness 
when  Beatrice  at  length  entered  her  room. 

"Where  have  you  been,  Beatrice?"  she  said  querulously; 
"  why  did  you  leave  me." 


398  BEATEICE. 

"  Darling,  you  know  I  went  for  Doctor  Rogerson,  but  he 
cannot  come  just  now." 

Beatrice  had  also  been  to  send  a  telegraphic  message  for  Mr. 
Brown,  but  this  she  did  not  tell  her  mother. 

"  You  should  not  have  left  me,"  said  Mrs.  Gervoise ;  "  I 
shall  not  long  remain  with  you." 

"Darling!" 

"  Beatrice,  it  is  no  use — I  know  it,  and  you  know  it.  Ring 
for  Brownson,  please." 

Beatrice  was  glad  to  comply  with  the  request,  and  to  turn 
her  face  away.  She  rang,  but  though  she  had  met  Brownson  on 
coming  in,  had  even  spoken  with  her,  and  tried  to  bribe  her  into 
faithfulness,  the  present  summons  was  not  answered.  Again  and 
again  Beatrice  rang,  and  still  the  girl  did  not  appear. 

"It  is  no  use  having  a  maid  of  my  own,"  querulously  said 
Mrs.  Gervoise  ;  "  why  does  she  not  come?" 

"  I  shall  go  and  look  for  her,"  suddenly  said  Beatrice. 

"  Indeed  I  hope  you  will  not.  Surely,  Beatrice,  it  is  not 
your  place — send  some  other  servant  for  her." 

"  No,  darling,  I  must  go  myself." 

Without  waiting  for  further  argument,  Beatrice  rose  and  left 
the  room.  She  ran  up  to  the  upper  floor  where  tlie  servants 
slept,  and  at  once  she  found  Brownson's  room.  She  entered  it 
without  knocking,  and  saw  her  mother's  maid  kneeling  on  the 
floor  and  busy  packing.  As  sharp  and  keen  a  pain  shot  through 
Beatrice's  heart  as  if  she  had  detected  the  infidelity  of  a  trusty 
servant  and  friend.  Brownson  turned  round  on  hearing  her,  and 
for  a  moment  looked  confused. 

"Why  were  you  going  without  your  wages,  Brownson?" 
asked  Beatrice  ;  "  why  were  you  leaving  your  mistress  by  stealth, 
as  if  you  had  robbed  her  ?  " 

"  I  can  have  my  boxes  searched,  ma'am,"  said  Brownson, 
firing  up. 

Beatrice  made  a  gesture  of  disdain. 

"  You  may  lock  them  up  and  go,  Brownson,"  she  said ;  "I 
know  you  ;  you  will  betray  the  hand  that  feeds  you.  You  have 
neither  truth  nor  honesty,  but  you  are  too  cunning  and  too  shrewd 
to  be  a  thief.  Go,  then,  and  take  your  wages,"  she  added, 
counting  the  money  on  the  table  ;  "  yet  let  me  tell  you,  Brown- 
son, that  I  am  the  true  mistress  of  Carnoosie,  and  that  honesty 
might  have  been  a  better  policy  than  treason." 

Brownson  looked  incHned  to  make  an  insolent  reply,  but 
Beatrice  silenced  her  by  a  quick,  haughty  gesture,  and  went  back 
to  her  mother. 


.    BEATRICE. 

"  Darling,"  she  said,  "  I  must  be  your  maid  now.  Brown- 
son  is  leaving." 

"  You  have  sent  her  away.  Oh,  Beatrice,  I  wish  you  had 
not — I  know  you  never  liked  that  girl,  but  I  assure  you  she  was 
very  handy — I  wish,  Beatrice,  you  would  not  be  so  hasty." 

"  Darling,  Brownson  is  going  away  of  her  own  accord.  She 
is  leaving  us  for  Mr.  Gervoise.  It  is  no  use  attempting  to  con- 
ceal it  from  you,"  continued  Beatrice,  looking  sadly  at  her 
mother,  "the  great  break  has  come.  I  met  Mr.  Gervoise  at 
Doctor  Rogerson's  this  morning ;  I  told  him  to  enter  Carnoosie 
no  more,  and  I  have  forbidden  the  servants  to  let  him  in." 

Mrs.  Gervoise  turned  pale  as  death,  and  trembled  in  every 
limb. 

"  I  am  ruined  and  undone  !  "  she  cried,  sitting  up  and  clasp- 
ing her  hands  ;  "  he  will  come  and  take  me  away." 

"  No,  darling,"  replied  Beatrice,  "  you  are  safe  ;  it  is  I  who 
must  fear  and  tremble.  Yes,  you  were  right  enough  when  you 
came  to  me  the  other  night — a  great  danger  threatens  me,  and  I 
am  alone — alone  !     There  is  no  one  to  help  or  defend  me  ! " 

The  deep  despondency  of  her  voice  went  to  Mrs.  Gervoise's 
heart. 

"Beatrice,  my  poor  Beatrice,  what  is  it?"  she  cried  anx- 
iously ;  "  tell  me  all." 

"  I  must,"  replied  Beatrice,  still  very  sad ;  "  the  time  has 
gone  by  when  I  thought  I  could  keep  all  my  sorrows  and  troubles 
from  you  ;  my  poor  darling,  you  must  share  them.  They  want 
to  prove  me  mad." 

"  But  you  are  not  mad ! "  cried  Mrs.  Gervoise  ;  "  it  is  a  con- 
spiracy ! " 

"Ay,  darling,  and  one  that  has  long  been  hatching  against 
me.  For  years  I  have  been  proclaimed  insane  by  Mr.  Gervoise, 
and  it  seems  I  am  peculiar ;  besides,  who  knows  me  ?  Oh !  I 
shall  have  a  hard,  a  very  hard  battle  to  fight,  and  I  am  alone  ! 
Doctor  Rogerson  was  their  tool,  and,  who  knows,  perhaps  he  is 
so  still.     I  am  alone,  and  God  help  me,  or  I  am  undone  !" 

"  God  help  us  both  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Gervoise,  in  sore  distress. 
"  Oh  !  Beatrice,  will  Heaven  ever  forgive  me  for  marrying  that 
man?" 

Beatrice  did  not  reply.  Her  elbows  rested  on  her  knees, 
and  her  head  in  the  palms  of  her  hands.  She  felt  sad — sad  to 
the  very  heart,  and  weak  as  a  child  against  her  foes.  Alas ! 
hers  had  been  a  long  contest  against  her  enemy,  and  in  the  hour 
when  she  needed  it  most  her  worn-out  courage  well-nigh  failed 


400  BEATRICE. 

her.  The  close  of  that  day  was  not  calculated  to  give  her  heart. 
Whether  Mr.  Gervoise  attempted  to  enter  Carnoosie  or  not,  Bea- 
trice did  not  know,  but  toward  four  in  the  afternoon  the  gate- 
keeper vanished  from  the  lodge,  where  he  was  seen  no  more. 

"I  suppose  he  was  a  good  witness  against  me,"  thought 
Beatrice.  "  I  noticed  that  the  man  looked  hard  at  me  when  I 
told  him  not  to  let  them  in — yes,  he  will  figure  well  in  the  in- 
quiry concerning  the  sanity  of  Miss  Gordon,  of  Carnoosie.  I 
think  I  have  read  such  testimony.  '  She  looked  wild  and  ex- 
cited,' and  so  forth.  Ay,  he  wiQ  do."  Others  were  probably  of 
equal  value,  for  one  by  one  three  of  the  upper  servants  dropped 
off  ere  the  day  was  over.  John,  and  a  few  who  had  perhaps 
been  found  too  insignificant  to  bribe,  or  who  were  too  timid  to 
take  so  strong  a  step,  remained  behind.  Beatrice  did  her  best 
to  conceal  this  ominous  fact  from  her  mother,  but  a  few  words 
dropped  by  John  in  Mrs.  Gervoise's  presence  betrayed  all  to 
her. 

"  The  very  servants  forsake  us ! "  she  cried,  clasping  her 
hands  ;  "  Beatrice,  send  for  Mr.  Gervoise,  and  make  peace." 

Beatrice  smiled  sadly. 

"  Mr.  Gervoise  wants  Carnoosie,"  she  said,  "  and  he  will 
take  no  other  price." 

"But  what  shall  we  do,  Beatrice? " 

"  God  knows,  my  poor  darling !  If  the  law  be  the  impar- 
tial goddess  with  bandaged  eyes  and  even  scales,  why  should  I 
fear  ?  But  if  Themis  can  be  bought  and  sold  like  your  maid ; 
if  purchased  eloquence,  if  bribed  witnesses,  can  convince  preju- 
diced judges  and  juries,  our  peril  is  great  indeed !  I  see  nothing 
to  be  done,  and  that  is  the  worst  of  it.  I  cannot  forestall  at- 
tack— ^that  is  impossible.  I  must  wait  for  it;  by  the  time  it 
comes  I  shall,  I  hope,  have  found  support  of  some  kind.  Medi- 
cal men  will  have  decided  that  I  am  not  more  insane  than  my 
neighbors.  Mr.  Brown  will  be  down  here  and  able  to  advise 
me,  but  I  have  no  trust  in  him.  I  keep  imagining  that  he  too  is 
bought,  and  would  betray  me." 

Mrs.  Gervoise  did  not  answer.  She  could  not.  The  calamity 
was  too  great  for  her,  and  it  overcame  and  prostrated  her  ener- 
gies. She  looked"  pitifully  at  her  daughter,  and  moaned  and 
wrung  her  hands,  but  said  or  suggested  nothing.  And  Beatrice, 
looking  at  the  sky  darkening  with  evening  clouds,  through  which 
a  dim,  yellow  moon  vainly  attempted  to  pierce,  felt  almost  as 
weak  and  as  helpless  as  her  mother.  Alas  !  she  had  fears  which 
she  did  not  dare  to  tell.     She  was  haunted  by  the  thought  that 


BEATEICE.  401 

another  Doctor  Rogerson  would  be  found,  five  lines  of  whose 
writing  would  confine  her  to  a  living  grave.  Her  weak  mother 
would  lament  over  her,  but  never  dare  to  interfere,  and  Gilbert 
would  not  know,  and  who  would  care  to  meddle  with  a  man  like 
Mr.  Gervoise  ?  .  Beatrice  shuddered  with  horror  as  she  contem- 
plated such  a  fate.  She  thought  of  leaving  the  house  at  once, 
and  of  throwing  herself  on  the  protection  of  a  magistrate,  but 
shame  at  the  scandal  of  the  proceeding  held  her  back.  Then 
the  thought  of  the  gates  unwatched  and  unlocked,  open  to  Mr. 
Gervoise  and  the  man  who  at  his  beck  could  and  would  appre- 
hend the  mistress  of  Camoosie  with  little  more  ceremony  than 
if  she  were  a  common  felon,  made  her  blood  boil.  What  pre- 
vented her  from  going  to  lock  them  herself  ?  The  uselessness 
of  the  proceeding,  the  sense  that  bolts  and  bars  were  no  protec- 
tion against  her  enemy.  "  God  help  me  !  "  she  thought  again, 
"  God  help  me  ! " 

Ay,  God  help  you  indeed,  Beatrice,  for  you  are  in  the  web, 
and  its  meshes  are  very  close  around  you. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

Sleep  did  not  come  near  Beatrice  that  night,  which  she 
spent  with  her  mother.  Anxiety  of  every  kind  oppressed  her. 
Mr.  Brown  had  not  arrived,  and  as  time  passed,  Mrs.  Gervoise 
became  alarmingly  unwell.  Her  daughter  arose  with  dawn  and 
sent  off  John  for  Doctor  Rogerson.  John  came  back  with  omi- 
nous tidings ;  Doctor  Rogerson  was  gone  to  London,  and  Mrs. 
Rogerson  did  not  know  when  he  would  return.  It  was  not  hard 
for  Beatrice  to  understand  by  whom,  and  for  what  purpose,  this 
weak  gentleman  had  been  sent  out  of  the  way.  She  smiled 
bitterly,  but  told  John  to  take  a  horse  and  ride  off  for  a  Doctor 
Lovell  who  lived  several  miles  off.  This  time  John  came  back 
within  a  few  minutes ;  Mr.  Gervoise  had  the  key  of  the  stables, 
and  he  refused  to  give  it  up.  The  message  was  delivered  to  Bea- 
trice outside  her  mother's  room. 

"Where  is  Mr.  Gervoise?"  she  asked. 

"  He's  on  the  terrace  smoking.  Miss." 

Beatrice  went  down-stairs  at  once. 

Ay !  John  had  spoken  truly.  Mr.  Gervoise,  who  had 
evidently  spent  the  night  in  the  house,  was  standing  on  the  ter- 
race, smoking  calmly  and  comfortably.  On  seeing  her  he  took 
out  his  cigar  and  bowed  and  smiled  with  mock  politeness. 

Beatrice  could  not  come  forward,  this  man's  audacity  fright- 
ened her,  for  it  was  the  certain  forerunner  of  calamity.  Since 
he  had  returned  to  her  house  and  settled  himself  once  more 
within  it,  he  must  indeed  be  sure  of  his  position.  A  thrill  ran 
through  her  frame  when  she  thought  that  the  five  lines  of  which 
Doctor  Rogerson  had  spoken  might  be  within  his  pocket.  True, 
it  seemed  impossible  to  her  that  the  head  of  a  lunatic  asylum 
would  not  recognize  her  sanity  and  set  her  free  ;  but  suppose 
such  a  person  could  be  bought !  She  was  rich,  and  out  of  her 
stores  a  splendid  bribe  might  be  given.  Beatrice's  very  lips 
turned  white  as  she  looked  this  direful  "it  may  be"  in  the 
face. 


BEATRICE.  403 

Ay  !  Beatrice,  you  well  may  fear.  It  is  peril  for  you  that 
lies  in  Mr.  Gervoise's  smiling  countenance.  Seeing  that  she 
stood  still,  he  came  toward  her. 

"  My  dear  Beatrice,"  he  said,  "  this  is  very  childish ;  you 
had  better  have  kept  quiet.  My  dear,  you  have  not  a  leg  to 
stand  on.  I  tell  you  that  your  behaviour  has  been  childish  in 
the  extreme." 

Beatrice  did  not  answer.  She  knew  that  if  he  braved  her 
with  insolent  impunity,  it  was  because,  though  she  might  bid  her 
servants  turn  him  out,  he  was  sure  they  would  not  obey  her. 
She  felt  ready  to  choke.  Her  breath  would  scarcely  come  for 
excess  of  emotion.  It  was  not  anger,  it  was  not  sorrow,  it  wag 
something  between  both,  with  which  mingled  passionate  indigna- 
tion. "What !  was  she,  the  mistress  of  Carnoosie,  to  submit  to 
this?  Were  her  liberty,  her  property,  and  her  peace  at  tho 
mercy  of  this  stranger  to  her  blood  and  race  ;  of  this  foul  bird 
who,  in  an  evil  hour,  had  entered  her  ancestral  nest !  Alas  ! 
she  vainly  looked  around  her  for  a  remedy  !  The  law  !  It  was 
to  that  Mr.  Gervoise  must  appeal  to  consummate  his  final  wrong. 
That  severe  judge  must  pronounce  on  her  fate,  and  absolve  or 
condemn  her. 

"  I  advise  you  to  be  calm,"  resumed  Mr.  Gervoise,  in  a  tone 
evidently  meant  to  provoke  and  exasperate  her.  "  I  advise  you 
not  to  attempt  leaving  this  house.  I  have  been  to  a  magistrate, 
Miss  Gordon,  and  I  know  my  duty.  I  will  not  allow  you  to  ex- 
pose yourself  and  your  family  by  such  wild  conduct  as  took  you 
to  Doctor  Rogerson's.  The  gates  are  locked,  every  door  of  the 
orchard  and  grounds  is  locked,  and  I  advise  you  not  to  attempt 
leaving  it." 

Whether  the  gates  were  locked  or  not  Beatrice  did  not  know, 
but  she  knew  what  Mr.  Gervoise  wanted.  He  wanted  a  scene, 
frantic  screams,  or  hysterics,  any  thing  that  could  make  his  evil 
tale  more  credible.  She  set  her  teeth,  that  no  indignant  or  ve- 
hement exclamation  might  pass  them.  But  though  she  should 
die  in  the  effort  of  restraint,  he  should  not,  she  vowed,  have  that 
satisfaction.  So  she  turned  her  back  upon  him,  first  smiling  de- 
fiantly in  his  face,  whei:e  she  read  evident  disappointment  at  this 
silent  submission. 

With  her  blood  boiling,  but  her  will  subduing  all,  Beatrice 
re-entered  the  house,  and  went  up  to  her  own  room — ^to  her 
mother's  she  dared  not  go.  She  locked  herself  in  to  tliink ;  for 
now,  indeed,  had  come  the  crisis  of  her  fate — now  was  thought 


404  BEATRICE. 

needful,  if  it  was  ever  to  avail  her.  She  sat  down  and  clasped 
her  throbbing  forehead  in  her  hands. 

"  He  wants  to  drive  me  mad,  I  know  he  does,  and  there  is 
or  has  been  insanity  in  the  blood  of  the  Carnoosies,  so  there  may 
be  insanity  in  that  of  their  descendants,  the  Gordons.  Oh  !  to 
become  really  insane,  driven  into  that  fearful  confusion  of  the 
senses  by  the  badness  of  one's  mortal  enemy,  that  were  a  fate 
indeed !  " 

She  shuddered' and  rose  ;  a  face  looked  back  at  her  from  an 
old  Venetian  mirror.  It  was  her  own,  pale,  startled,  and  wild. 
How  like  it  was  to  the  portrait  of  the  Italian  lady,  and  how  she 
remembered  Mrs.  Scot's  remark,  "It  is  unlucky  about  the 
mouth  ! "  Was  she  unlucky  ?  Was  there  such  a  thing  as  mis- 
fortune clinging  to  some,  walking  in  their  steps  like  the  ancient 
furies?  With  all  her  might  Beatrice  rejected  the  belief.  Her 
share  of  happiness  had  been  given  her  by  a  beneficent  Creator, 
and  man  should  not  rob  her  of  it.  She  sat  down  again  and  tried 
to  think,  but  thought  would  not  come — ^it  was  a  wild  confusion 
of  wrath,  despair,  and  grief. 

"  His  object  must  be  to  drive  me  mad,"  thought  Beatrice, 
when  she  grew  more  calm,  "  for  it  is  not  now-a-days  that  ladies 
of  property  can  be  locked  up  without  proof.  Were  he  to  shut 
me  up  in  this  very  room  it  would  bring  him  no  nearer  to  his 
end.  I  should  still  be  the  mistress  of  Carnoosie,  and  Antony 
could  not  touch  a  penny  of  my  fortune.  Therefore  he  must  mean 
to  drive  me  mad.  My  reason  is  the  battle-field,  and  as  it  fares 
there,  shall  he  or  Beatrice  conquer." 

And  as  she  came  to  this  conclusion,  Beatrice  remembered 
that  there  were  deleterious  drugs  that  afiected  the  mental  facul- 
ties. What  if  Mr.  Gervoise  were  to  take  these  means  to  insure 
his  end  !  What  if  that  harmless-looking  water  on  her  table  con- 
tained a  poison  more  deadly  than  any  she  had  ever  feared !  She 
remembered  the  phial  she  had  seen.  Perhaps  it  was  not  merely 
to  frighten  her  that  he  had  torn  the  label  off". 

"  I  shall  go  mad  if  I  pursue  these  thoughts,"  said  Beatrice  to 
herself,  "  and  I  will  not  go  mad ! " 

With  a  swelling  heart  she  looked  at  the  noble  prospect  from 
her  window. 

"  Carnoosie,  my  own  Carnoosie,  you  are  my  kingdom !"  she 
said,  "  and  I  will  fight  bravely  for  you.  The  usurper  shall  not 
prevail  over  your  mistress,  nor  reign  in  your  solitary  avenues, 
and  over  your  herds  of  deer.  These  are  my  subjects,  and  for 
them,  and  for  me,  and  for  the  good  right  will  I  struggle  bravely, 
so  help  me  Heaven  !  " 


BEATEIOE.  405 

She  felt  almost  calm  again,  and  when  she  went  to  her  mother 
she  said,  with  smiling  eyes  and  a  cheerful  voice  : 

"Darling,  I  cannot  send  for  Doctor  Lovell  at  once,  for  John 
cannot  get  the  key  of  the  stable,  but  he  shall  come  later.  How 
do  you  feel  ?  " 

"  Beatrice,  I  feel  very  ill,  but  never  mind  about  the  doctor, 
he  could  do  me  no  good.     Beatrice,  I  want  peace — peace  ! " 

"  And  what  if  he  takes  her  away  from  me?"  thought  Bea- 
trice, in  silent  despair.  "  I  can  save  myself,  but  can  I  prevent 
that?" 

"  Beatrice,  I  have  but  a  short  time  to  live,"  pursued  her 
mother  ;  "  marry  Gilbert  when  I  am  gone." 

Beatrice's  eyes  flashed  with  strange  light. 

"  Where  is  Gilbert  ?  "  she  asked.  "lam  in  deep  grief — ^iu 
heavy  trouble,  almost  in  danger — where  is  Gilbert  ?  " 

"  Beatrice,  he  loves  you  dearly." 

"  I  know  nothing  about  it  if  he  does,  and,  alas !  my  poor 
darling,  sad  though  it  be  to  say  it,  I  feel  cold,  bitter,  and  dead  to 
Gilbert.  Let  us  not  speak  of  him.  I  dare  say  I  am  not  fair  to 
him — besides,  it  was  I  wished  for  this  parting — I  will  never 
seek  him,  never  recall  him." 

"  And  I  am  the  cause  of  that  too,"  said  Mrs.  Gervoise,  in 
deep  sorrow.  "  Beatrice,  every  grief  of  your  life  has  come 
through  me — every  one.  God  forgive  me  ! — God  take  me  away 
soon,  or  worse  will  happen  !  " 

Beatrice  was  not  heeding  her.  She  had  started  to  her  feet, 
and  bending  forward,  she  was  listening  intently.  Without  a 
word  she  glided  out  of  the  room,  passed  swiftly  down  the  stair- 
case, and  reached  the  hall  as  Mr.  Gervoise  was  saying  to  a 
strange  gentleman : 

"  Miss  Gordon,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  is  too  unwell  to  see  you, 
but  I  am  her  step-father,  and  she  has  authorized  me ^" 

"  I  am  Miss  Gordon,"  said  Beatrice,  in  a  clear,  ringing 
voice,  "  and  you,  sir,  are  Mr.  Brown,  I  suppose?" 

The  stranger  bowed. 

"  Then  be  my  witness,"  said  Beatrice,  in  distinct  tones,  and 
slightly  raising  her  hand,  "  that  Mr.  Gervoise  remains  in  this 
house  against  my  wish,  and  that  I  once  more  request  him  to 
leave  it." 

Mr.  Gervoise  shook  his  hand  threateningly  at  Beatrice,  but 
without  a  word  he  walked  away. 

"  Pray  come  in  here,"  said  Beatrice,  showing  Mr.  Brown  into 


406  BEATEICE. 

the  library,  "  and  be  kind  enough  to  wait  for  me.     My  mother  is 
very  ill,  and  I  must  send  at  once  for  the  medical  man." 

In  a  few  minutes  she  came  back,  and  as  calmly  as  she  could 
she  told  Mr.  Brown  her  whole  story.  He  heard  her  very  dis- 
passionately, and  as  Beatrice  could  see,  with  some  tinge  of  in- 
credulity. He  was  accustomed  to  exaggeration,  and  on  his 
guard  against  it.  Yery  civilly,  but  very  distinctly,  he  scouted  the 
idea  that  Beatrice's  reason  or  her  liberty  could  have  been  in  any 
sort  of  peril.  He  assured  her  that  sane  people  were  never  locked 
up  now,  or  if  by  any  sad  chance  such  a  case  happened,  that  their 
sanity  was  promptly  discovered.  He  therefore  advised  her  to 
disbelieve  Doctor  Rogerson,  and  he  mildly  blamed  her  for  turning 
out  Mr.  Gervoise  so  peremptorily. 

"  He  bribed  my  servants — he  locked  my  gates — he  threatened 
me." 

Mr.  Brown  smiled  a  calm,  incredulous  smile.  ■  He  was  one 
of  the  men  who  cannot  be  deceived.  He  assured  Beatrice  that 
she  looked  at  Mr.  Gervoise  with  the  eyes  of  prejudice,  and  that 
she  never  had  been  in  peril, 

"  Then  what  do  you  advise  for  the  future?  "  she  asked. 

'^  My  dear  madam,  what  is  there  to  advise  ? — why,  nothing 
— ^nothing  whatever.  Here  you  are  in  Carnoosie,  mistress  of  a 
handsome  estate  and  mansion,  surrounded  by  servants,  living  in 
your  own  house,  what  can  you  fear?  The  only  danger  that  I  can 
see  lies  in  your  being  afraid,  and  the  only  conspiracy  that  I  re- 
cognise is  that  of  making  you  afraid." 

"  You  maybe  right,"  replied  Beatrice,  "  yet  I  doubt  if  to  in- 
spire me  with  fear  be  Mr.  Gervoise's  only  object.  He  is  a  prac- 
tical man,  and  had  assuredly  more  in  view.  Up  to  the  present 
we  have  lived,  if  not  in  peace,  at  least  in  a  sort  of  truce.  He 
would  never  break  through  all  bonds  if  he  had  not  some  hold 
against  me." 

"  What  hold? "  asked  Mr.  Brown. 

"  His  daughter-in-law  is  my  heiress  if  I  die  childless,  as  I  al- 
ready told  you." 

"  That  is  a  very  remote  hold,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  smiling, 
"  and  if  Mr.  Gervoise  is  the  practical  man  you  say,  he  cannot 
have  relied  upon  that.  Depend  upon  it,  this  is  a  case  in  which, 
unless  I  am  greatly  mistaken,  the  word  '  fear '  had  best  been 
struck  out — annoyance  I  can  understand  and  admit ;  fear  is  out 
of  the  question." 

Mr.  Brown  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  played  with  his 


BEATRICE.  407 

watch-guard,  as  he  looked  at  Beatrice  through  a  pair  of  gold  spec- 
tacles with  a  very  complacent  air. 

"  But  since  I  am  afraid,"  persisted  Beatrice,  "  what  do  you 
advise  ?  " 

"  You  wish  for  my  candid  opinion?  " 

"  I  do." 

"  Well  then — get  married." 

"  That,"  said  Beatrice  icily,  "  is  impossible." 

"  Thereby  hangs  a  tale,"  thought  Mr.  Brown. 

"  What  shall  I  do  with  regard  to  my  mother  ?  "  resumed  Bea- 
trice, after  a  pause.  "  Mr.  Gervoise  will  come  to  take  her  from 
me,  and  I  cannot  give  her  up,  Mr.  Brown,  I  cannot.  She  is  ill, 
very  ill ;  besides,  it  is  out  of  the  question." 

But  Mr.  Brown  shook  his  head,  and  gave  Beatrice  no  com- 
fort on  that  head.  A  wife  belonged  to  her  husband,  not  to  her 
daughter  ;  a  wife  must  go  with  her  husband,  wherever  he  pleased 
to  take  her.  Better  make  the  best  of  a  bad  bargain,  &c.  Bea- 
trice heard  him  out,  then  said  coolly  : 

"  Very  well — I  shall  take  her  abroad." 

"  And  evade  the  law?"  thoughtfully  said  Mr.  Brown,  "  and 
evade  the  law  ?  Mind,  Miss  Gordon,  I  do  not  advise,  I  do  not 
recommend  such  a  course." 

More  comfort  than  this  Beatrice  could  not  extract  from  Mr. 
Brown.  Moreover,  he  spoke  of  going,  for  he  had  pressing  bus- 
iness in  town,  and  Miss  Gordon  did  not,  he  supposed,  require 
his  presence.  Indeed,  it  was  very  plain,  he  thought.  Miss  Gor- 
don had  never  required  it  at  all. 

"  Mr.  Lamb  was  right — I  should  have  had  a  solicitor  in  the 
neighborhood,"  thought  Beatrice  ;  "  this  man  is  worthless — jet, 
such  as  he  is,  I  think  he  has  saved  me." 

*'  Then  you  do  not  think  I  need  fear  any  attempt  from  Mr. 
Gervoise  ?  "  she  said  aloud. 

Mr.  Brown  smiled  benevolently. 

"  My  dear  madam,"  he  said,  "  I  have  already  explained  that 
your  personal  liberty  is  quite  secure.  If  Mr.  Gervoise  takes 
legal  proceedings,  you  will  resist  them  of  course  ;  but  depend 
upon  it,  if  he  is  an  acute  and  experienced  man,  he  will  take  none 
save  legal  proceedings." 

"  Well,  then,  Mr.  Brown,  you  may  go,"  replied  Beatrice  ; 
"  but  I  am  much  deceived  if  I  do  not  apply  to  you  before  long." 

"  I  hope  not — I  trust  not — we  shall  see." 

He  rose.  Beatrice's  heart  ached — ^he  was  going  after  all. 
Was  it  really   over — should  she  need  him  again?     She   felt 


408  BEATRICE. 

cowardly  and  weak,  and  would  have  given  any  thing  to  keep 
him. 

"  I  suppose  you  must  go,"  she  said. 

''  My  dear  madam,  I  -really  must.  I  am  grieved  to  think 
and  see  that  you  are  still  nervous.  Have  you  no  friend  whom 
you  could  summon  to  your  assistance,  your  moral  assistance  I 
may  say,  in  this  emergency  ?  " 

"  None,"  replied  Beatrice,  and  her  tone  was  so  desolate  that 
Mr.  Brown  felt  really  sorry  for  her. 

"  Well — well,  take  my  word  for  it,  you  need  not  fear — ^you 
need  not.     There  is  no  sort  of  danger." 

Beatrice  bowed,  and  thus  they  parted.  Mr.  Brown  in  so 
great  a  hurry  to  go  that  he  declined  all  refreshment. 

With  a  heavy  heart  Beatrice  went  back  to  her  mother.  She 
found  Doctor  Lovell  with  her.  Doctor  Lovell  thought  that  Mrs. 
Gervoise  was  excited,  and  recommended  repose. 

"  Then  I  suppose  my  mother  must  not  travel?"  quickly  said 
Beatrice. 

"  Not  yet — not  yet ;  repose,  perfect  repose  for  the  present,  if 
you  please,"  and  he  too  went  and  left  them. 

And  now  they  were  alone  in  that  great  house,  alone  with  ser- 
vants ever  ready  to  forsake  or  betray  them.  So  thought  Bea- 
trice as  she  sat  by  her  mother's  bed,  looking  at  her  pitifully. 

"My  dear,  where  were  you  all  this  time?"  eagerly  asked 
Mrs.  Gervoise. 

"  With  Mr.  Brown  the  solicitor.  He  says  I  need  not  fear — 
that  there  is  no  danger.     He  is  gone." 

Beatrice  spoke  mechanically.  Her  mother  took  her  hand  and 
looked  at  her. 

"  Beatrice,  do  not  fret,"  she  said,  "  if  Mr.  Brown  says  there 
is  no  danger,  there  is  none;  and  do  not  fret  about  me,  I  shall 
soon  be  beyond  Mr.  Gervoise's  reach — only,  Beatrice,  do  not  let 
him  enter  this  room— it  would  kill  me  at  once  ;  tell  John — ^you 
can  trust  him — to  watch  at  the  door.  Do  not  let  him  enter  the 
room." 

"  He  shall  not." 

"  Yes,  but  go  and  tell  John,  Beatrice,  go  and  tell  him." 

She  looked  so  eager  and  anxious  that  Beatrice  obeyed  at  once. 
She  went  herself,  and  found  John  in  the  kitchen.  She  brought 
him  up,  gave  him  a  chair  on  the  landing,  and  said : 

"  John,  I  believe  I  can  trust  you." 

John  nodded. 

"  Sit  here,  and  stay  here.   When  you  feel  worn  out  with  your 


BEATEICE.  409 

watching,  knock  at  the  door  and  tell  me,  and  I  will  let  you  go, 
but  do  not  stir  without  giving  me  warning.  My  object  in  placing 
you  here  is  this,  you  will  let  no  one — no  one,  mind  you,  John 
— enter  this  room." 

John  requested  her  not  to  be  afraid,  and,  relying  on  his  prom- 
ise, Beatrice  went  back  to  her  mother. 

"  Is  John  at  the  door,"  asked  Mrs.  Gervoise. 

"  Yes,  darling,  and  he  will  let  no  one  in." 

"  That  is  right.  Beatrice,  it  is  not  that  I  cannot  forgive  him, 
but  if  he  came  in,  and  came  in  to  take  me  away,  it  would  kill  me." 

Beatrice  groaned  inwardly ;  for,  alas ;  he  would  come,  and 
he  would  take  her  away,  and  resistance  would  be  useless,  and 
her  conscience  now  said  : 

"  You  should  have  borne  it  all  rather  than  have  driven  mat- 
ters to  this  extremity." 

"  Beatrice,"  said  her  mother,  in  a  whisper,  for  she  did  not 
want  John  to  hear,  "  you  must  marry." 

Beatrice  shook  her  head. 

"  You  must,  and  it  must  be  Gilbert." 

"  Darling,  all  that  is  over — for  all  I  know,  Gilbert  is  mar- 
ried— besides,  I  was  in  trouble  and  distress,  and  he  never  came 
to  me." 

"  He  did  not  know  it,  child." 

"  He  did  not  seek  to  know  it.  Besides,  that  feeling  is  gone. 
I  believe  a  woman's  liking  cannot  survive  some  things.  Gilbert 
gave  me  up  too  easily.  I  felt  it,  and  resented  it,  and  perhaps  I 
did  not  love  him  so  much  myself.  Darling,  you  have  been  the 
great  passion  of  my  life,"  she  added,  laying  her  head  softly  and 
fondly  on  her  mother's  pillow.  "  Do  you  not  remember  how, 
when  I  was  a  little  child,  I  was  your  little  maid  and  servant  ? 
Darling,  if  we  were  poor  I  would  be  so  again.  I  have  loved 
Gilbert  very  dearly,  but  never,  darling,  as  I  loved  you — for  I 
gave  him  up  for  you — and  I  would  never  have  given  you  up  for 
him — never — ^never  !  " 

Mrs.  Gervoise  smiled  faintly,  and  her  pale  thin  hand  smoothed 
her  daughter's  heavy  curls,  and  stroked  the  blooming  cheek, 
which  trouble  and  anxiety  could  not  turn  pale. 

"  I  think  I  could  sleep,"  she  said. 

"  Sleep,  then,  my  darling,  Doctor  Lovell  said  rest  would  do 
you  good." 

"  Yes,  but  stay  so." 

"  Ay  !  darling,  I  will." 

Mrs.  Gervoise  closed  her  eyes,  and  Beatrice  patiently  stayed 
18 


410  BEATRICE. 

by  her,  her  hand  clasped  in  her  mother's,  her  head  lying  on  the 
same  piUow. 

You  do  well,  Beatrice,  for  the  spoiler  may  be  on  his  way ;  a 
little  more,  and  you  may  be  bereaved.  Therefore  grudge  no 
cost,  however  dear,  which  you  may  have  paid  for  that  love  ;  let 
the  memory  of  your  sacrifice  be  sweet  to  you  in  after-times  ;  bet- 
ter suffer  for  having  been  faithful  to  that  poor,  frail,  sleeping 
mother,  the  cause  of  all  your  woe,  than,  by  forsaking  her,  to 
have  had  the  fulness. of  life's  joys,  even  with  Gilbert,  the  lover 
of  your  youth.  Repent  nothing  that  you  have  done,  and  rejoice 
that  you  could  do  so  much. 

''  Repent,"  thought  Beatrice,  looking  at  the  sleeper's  face, 
"  no,  my  darling,  never — ^never — come  what  will ;  and  something 
tells  me  that  thelbad  man  who  has  poisoned  your  life  and  mine 
shall  not  prevail  against  you  ! " 

John,  where  were  you  when  that  stealthy  step  stole  up-stairs 
to  Mrs.  Gervoise's  room?  "Was  this  your  faithful  watching  after 
all  ?  Could  the  enemy  enter  the  very  heart  of  the  citadel,  and 
you,  the  faithless  sentry,  not  be  there  to  give  due  warning  ?  Mr. 
Brown  was  right.  Whatever  danger  Beatrice's  liberty  might 
have  run,  she  was  safe  now.  Mr.  Gervoise  was  too  cautious  to 
make  a  useless  and  certainly  dangerous  attempt.  Bat  retaliation 
was  in  his  power,  and  he  had  vowed  that  Beatrice's  very  heart 
should  thrill  at  the  revenge  he  "would  take.  He  had  stolen  in 
through  the  grounds  with  the  shadows  of  evening,  and,  sheltered 
by  the  darkness  of  the  night,  he  entered  the  house  and  crept  up- 
stairs unseen.  Abruptly  he  opened  the  door  of  his  wife's  room. 
A  lamp  burned  on  the  table,  and  Beatrice  sat  alone  by  her 
mother's  bed.  She  looked  up  on  hearing  him,  but  neither  spoke 
nor  stirred.     Mr.  Gervoise  advanced  toward  her. 

"Madam,"  he  said,  "you  have  forbidden  me  this  house — 
you  have  braved  me  insolently,  and  whilst  it  is  yours  I  enter  it 
no  more.  But  your  mother  is  my  wife — remember  that.  When 
I  go,  and  I  will  go,  she  goes  too  ;  and  allow  me  to  assure  you 
that  when  I  take  her  away  this  evening  you  have  seen  your  last 
of  her." 

Beatrice  still  looked  at  him,  and  did  not  answer. 

"  Do  you  hear  !  "  he  asked. 

"  And  do  you  see?"  replied  Beatrice. 

She  rose.  She  drew  back  the  heavy  bed  curtains,  and  showed 
him  sleeping  on  its  pillow — oh !  how  deep  and  how  calm  was 
that  sleep  ! — the  pale  marble  face  of  Mrs.  Gervoise  ! 

Oh !  boaster,  where  is  your  revenge  ?    Tyrant,  where  is  your 


BEATEICE.  411 

power?  Shall  that  cold  image  follow  you,  or  will  you,  her 
master,  go  down  with  her  to  the  chill,  damp  vault  of  Carnoosie  ? 
Speak  ! — answer  ?  What !  not  a  word  ?  Turn  away,  then,  sub- 
dued for  once,  and,  by  your  very  silence,  confess  yourself  con- 
quered I 


CHAPTER  L. 

"Whatever  changes  time  may  have  wrought  since  this  tale 
began,  none  appear  in  the  old  house  in  Great  Ormond  Street. 
It  is  still  a  dilapidated  tenement  outside,  with  plenty  of  mouldy 
wood-work  within.  Indeed,  there  is  a  shutter  on  the  second 
floor  which  is  the  misery  of  the  neighbourhood.  Every  time  the 
breath  of  a  gusty  November  night  gets  in  through  the  broken  and 
dust-stained  window-panes,  the  shutter  gives  a  dreary  bang,  and 
numberless  doors  within  answer  the  call,  and  creak  and  slap  in 
friendly  response.  The  house  has  been  proclaimed  a  nuisance, 
and  energetic  steps  to  abate  it  are  going  to  be  taken  by  the  parish 
authorities,  when  relief  comes  on  a  dull  foggy  afternoon. 

Two  carriages  laden  with  luggage  drove  through  the  fog,  and 
stopped  at  the  door.  A  servant  man  jumped  down  from  the  box, 
and  using  a  rusty  key,  sadly  in  need  of  oil,  at  length  succeeded 
in  effecting  an  entrance.  Then  a  lady  in  deep  mourning  alighted 
and  entered  the  house,  followed  by  a  maid  in  black,  who  looked 
piteous  and  miserable,  and  shivered  as  she  met  the  chill  air  of 
this  long-closed  abode. 

They  went  up-stairs.  Through  the  half-empty,  hollow-sound- 
ing rooms,  John  led  his  young  mist^ress  to  the  apartment  which 
had  once  been  his  old  master's.  He  opened  the  window,  and 
even  the  fog  was  welcome,  so  damp  and  vault-like  felt  the  air  of 
this  room.  Mr.  Carnoosie's  chair  still  stood  where  he  had  sat  in 
it  a  few  days  before  his  death,  near  the  fire-place,  in  which  re- 
mained the  ashes  and  cinders  of  a  long-spent  fire.  With  rough 
courtesy  John,  taking  out  his  pocket-handkerchief,  tried  to  re- 
move from  this  chair  the  accumulated  dust  of  years,  but  he  only 
raised  a  cloud  which  set  Beatrice's  maid  coughing  desperately. 

"  Get  this  place  cleaned,  John,"  said  Miss  Gordon,  and  going 
down-stairs  she  walked  out  into  the  street.  She  went  out  without 
a  purpose,  and  purposeless  she  wandered  through  the  foggy 
streets,  where  gas-lights  were  already  burning.  She  cared, 
wished,  and  hoped  for  nothing.     It  was  not  grief  she  felt,  but 


BEATRICE.  413 

something  more — a  dull  heart-ache,  that  found  no  relief  in  tears 
or  in  lamentations,  a  pain  that  went  with  her  wherever  she  might 
go — a  pitiless,  a  wearisome  burden.  At  length,  after  walking 
for  a  mile  or  more,  she  retraced  her  steps,  and  found  Ormond 
Street  and  her  house  again,  not  without  some  trouble.  It  was 
John  who  opened  the  door  to  her,  and  though  not  habitually  talk- 
ative, he  exerted  himself  so  far  as  to  inform  her  that  "  the  place 
was  right  down  comfortable  now,  and  the  dinner  was  just  ready." 

Miss  Gordon  found  the  cloth  laid  in  the  room  up-stairs.  She 
also  found  that  it  had  been  considerably  improved  ;  and,  chilled 
as  she  was  with  her  walk,  she  was  not  indifferent  to  the  warmth 
of  the  fire  that  blazed  in  the  grate,  but  she  expressed  neither  sur- 
prise nor  satisfaction.  All  she  said  was,  as  she  sat  down  in  the 
arm-chair : 

"  I  expect  a  gentleman  here  this  evening ;  show  him  up  as 
soon  as  he  comes." 

"  Am  I  to  ask  his  name  ?" 

"  No." 

And  she  leaned  her  forehead  on  her  hand,  and  seemed  so 
thoroughly  disinclined  for  speech  that  John  thought  he  might  as 
well  wait  till  he  was  addressed  to  talk.  He  went  down  and 
nodded  to  his  own  thoughts  ;  of  course  John  had  known  all  about 
Gilbert  and  his  mistress  and  their  thwarted  loves,  and  he  now 
set  it  down  in  his  mind  what  gentleman  it  was  whom  Miss  Gor- 
don expected,  and  whom  he  was  to  show  up  without  asking  his 
name.  Only,  remote  as  was  John's  experience  of  such  matters, 
he  thought  that  his  young  lady  looked  rather  stern  and  gloomy, 
and  he  was  obliged  to  conclude  that  she  was  downright  unkiad 
when  he  saw  her  sitting  down  to  a  solitary  dinner  without  so 
much  as  waiting  for  him. 

John's  surprise  lessened  when  in  the  course  of  the  evening  a 
double  knock  announced  the  presence  of  the  visitor,  who  proved 
to  be  a  bald  gentleman  of  fifty,  with  gold  spectacles  and  a  portly 
figure.  John  stared  at  him  in  his  uncivilized  fashion,  but  without 
a  word  showed  him  up  to  the  room  where  Beatrice  sat  waiting, 
looking  at  the  fire,  and  her  eyes  shaded  from  the  light  of  the  two 
wax  candles  which  burned  on  the  table  in  a  pair  of  tall  dreary- 
looking  candlesticks.  She  turned  round  and  rose  slowly  on 
hearing  the  door  open,  and  Mr.  Brown — for  it  was  he — was 
shocked  at  the  change  in  her  appearance  which  a  few  weeks  had 
wrought.  Her  face  was  of  a  dull  paleness,  the  token  of  sorrow 
and  ill-health.  Her  dark  eyes  looked  preternaturally  large,  and 
had  a  fixed,  intent  look.     Grief,  and  something  more  than  grief, 


414:  BEATRICE. 

appeared  in  her  whole  aspect.  It  was  as  if  much  suffering  had 
turned  into  bitter  sternness  a  nature  once  genial  and  ardent.  She 
welcomed  Mr.  Brown  with  a  few  cold  words,  then  said  briefly : 

'•  May  I  know  on  what  business  you  wish  to  speak  to  me, 
Mr.  Brown  ?    I  am  here  for  a  day  or  two  only." 

"Indeed!"  said  Mr.  Brown;  "you  are  going  to  take  a 
journey,  I  suppose?" 

"  Yes,  I  am  going  to  Turkey,  to  Asia,  anywhere." 

"  I  suppose  Carnoosie  is  locked  up?" 

"  It  is  ;  the  servants  are  gone,  and  I  am  going  too.  There- 
fore I  troubled  you  to  call  this  evening.  The  sooner  we  settle 
whatever  business  you  have  with  me,  the  better." 

Mr.  Brown  coughed. 

"  I  am  afraid  it  may  interfere  with  your  journey,  Miss  Gor- 
don." 

Beatrice  looked  coldly  surprised.     The  solicitor  resumed : 

"  I  have  received  a  letter  from  the  solicitors  of  Mr,  Gervoise 
and  his  son,  and  by  that  letter  I  learn  that  Mr.  Gervoise  claims 
an  annuity  of  fifty  pounds  a  year,  which  the  late  Mrs.  Gervoise 
bequeathed  to  him ;  and  that  his  son,  Mr.  Antony  Gervoise, 
claims  the  estate  of  Carnoosie  in  behalf  of  his  wife,  the  legal 
mistress  of  the  same,  so  he  declares." 

Beatrice  smiled  derisively. 

"  Let  them,"  she  said. 

"  Miss  Gordon,  excuse  me.  I  formerly  made  light  of  your 
fears,  but  this  is  quite  another  matter.  Mr.  Antony  Gervoise 
disputes  the  will  of  ^he  late  Mr.  Carnoosie." 

"On  what  plea?" 

"  On  the  plea  that  it  was  not  duly  executed ;  that  at  the  time 
he  made  that  will  Mr.  Carnoosie  was  not  of  sound  mind,  mem- 
ory, or  understanding ;  also  that  undue  influence  was  exercised 
to  make  him  leave  his  property  to  you." 

"Indeed!" 

She  looked  profoundly  disdainful. 

"  A  woman  all  over,"  thought  Mr.  Brown  ;  "  the  imaginary 
peril  upsets  her,  the  real  danger  makes  her  say  '  Indeed ! ' " 

"And  what  about  these  people?"  asked  Beatrice  after  a 
while. 

"  I  can  only  tell  you  that  legal  proceedings  are  going  to  com- 
mence.    If  you  are  inclined  to  resist — " 

"If?"  she  interrupted  indignantly. 

"  Well,  then,  now  is  the  time." 

"  Mr.  Brown,"  said  Beatrice,  after  a  pause,  "  will  you  take 
charge  of  this  matter?" 


BEATEICE.  415 

"  Certainly ;  will  you  kindly  furnish  me  with  all  the  necessary 
information  ?  " 

Beatrice  did  not  understand  him  at  once.  He  had  to  explain 
to  her  some  of  the  machinery  of  the  law  in  these  cases ;  also, 
that  as  Mr.  Gervoise's  solicitors  were  not  likely  to  tell  him  the 
weak  points  of  her  case,  she  must  do  so. 

"  I  know  of  none,"  replied  Beatrice  haughtily  ;  "  Mrs.  Antony 
Gervoise  has  not  the  shadow  of  a  right — I  am  the  legal  mistress 
of  Carnoosie." 

But  lawyers  never  take  any  thing  for  granted.  Mr.  Brown 
persisted  in  questioning,  and  he  questioned  to  such  purpose  that 
he  got  out  of  Beatrice  not  merely  what  she  knew  of  her  own  his- 
tory, but  a  good  deal  that  she  did  not  know. 

"  I  see — I  see,"  he  said,  after  hearing  her  out,  "  a  will  case, 
and,  I  will  venture  to  add,  a  great  will  case." 

He  looked  at  it  professionally. 

"  I  suppose  it  will  last  long?" 

"  Years  most  probably." 

"  And  what  do  you  think  of  it  so  far,  Mr.  Brown?" 

Mr.  Brown  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  played  with  his 
chain. 

"  So  far  as  I  can  see,"  he  said  cautiously,  "  the  fact  that  Mr. 
Gervoise,  your  guardian  and  trustee,  married  your  mother,  sug- 
gests to  my  mind  that  the  will  was  made  in  your  favour  by  Mr. 
Carnoosie  at  his  instigation." 

Beatrice  started  as  if  she  had  been  stung,  for  she  suddenly 
remembered  Mrs.  Scot's  taunts. 

"  Why  at  his  instigation?"  she  asked  indignantly. 

"  Because  you  were  not  the  heiress-at-law,  and  that  he  had 
an  interest,  and,  according  to  your  description  of  him,  a  strong 
one,  in  making  you  heiress  de  facto.  If  he  married  your  mother 
because  you  were  rich — and  you  say  so — he  most  probably  helped 
to  make  you  rich.  And  if  he  now  attempts  to  undo  his  work,  I 
fear  it  is  a  proof  that  he  knows  of  some  weak  point  which  will 
tell  against  you  in  the  long  run.  Of  course  we  will  do  our  best 
to  defeat  him,  but  depend  upon  it  he  has  some  ground  on  which 
to  proceed." 

Beatrice  clenched  her  slender  hands. 

"  I  will  die  a  beggar,"  she  said,  "before  that  man  conquers 
me.  Whilst  my  mother  lived  I  bore  with  every  thing,  rebelliously, 
I  grant,  but  still  I  bore  it.  Now  death  has  set  me  free,  it  is  a 
battle  ;  be  it  so,  all  I  ask  for  is  a  fair  field  and  no  favour  to  de- 
feat him." 


416  BEATRICE. 

"  Did  you  know  Mr.  Camoosie?"  asked  Mr.  Brown.  "  Had 
he  any  affection  for  you?  Can  you  give  any  reason  why  he 
should  have  left  you  this  large  property  ? " 

"  No,"  reluctantly  replied  Beatrice,  "  I  never  saw  him.  I 
know  nothing  about  him." 

"  Was  he  attached  to  your  father,  or  friendly  with  him?" 

"  No,"  she  answered,  again,  "  I  believe  they  were  not  friends." 

"  And  yet  he  makes  him  his  heir — depend  upon  it,  the  weak 
point  is  there  ;  undue  influence  was  used,  and  who  should  know 
it  and  be  able  to  prove  it  better  than  the  person  who  used  that 
influence  ?  " 

Beatrice  looked  at  Mr.  Brown  almost  sternly.  Every  word 
he  uttered  confirmed  Mrs.  Scot's  assertions,  and  she  could  not 
bear  to  look  this  possibility  in  the  face. 

"  May  I  ask,"  resumed  Mr.  Brown,  "  why  Mr.  Mortimer  was 
preferred  to  Mr.  Stone's  daughter,  and  why  that  daughter  was 
preferred  to  her  father?" 

"  He  was  thought  dead.  Why  Mr.  Mortimer  was  preferred 
to  her  I  do  not  know." 

"  That  is  something  in  your  favour ;  it  shows  Mr.  Camoosie 
to  have  been  a  capricious,  or,  let  us  say,  an  eccentric  man.  Was 
his  will  never  attacked  before  the  present  time?" 

"  I  have  heard  my  mother  say  that  Mr.  Mortimer  spoke  of 
disputing  it,  but  he  never  did  so." 

"  Did  you  hear  on  what  grounds?" 

Reluctantly  Beatrice  answered : 

"  Undue  influence  was  spoken  of." 

"  Just  so — -just  so — only  Mr.  Mortimer,  not  being  heir-at-law, 
did  nothing.     I  see — I  see." 

"  Mr.  Brown,"  said  Beatrice,  in  a  cold,  distinct  voice,  "  let 
us  understand  one  another  clearly.  I  will  not  give  up  my  claim 
to  Camoosie,  or,  rather,  I  will  not  cease  to  consider  myself  its 
lawful  mistress  for  one  moment." 

"  My  dear  madam,  I  am  not  deciding  on  your  case  in  the 
least ;  but  I  am  showing  you,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  that  it  has  weak 
points.  Of  course  it  has  strong  points  too.  I  shall  have  a  look 
at  the  will,  and  as  the  case  proceeds  we  shall  see  our  way 
better." 

'•But  how  dare  Antony  Gervoise  attack  that  will?"  asked 
Beatrice.  "  Why  is  it  not  attacked  by  the  only  one  who  can 
claim  a  right  to  do  so,  Mr.  Stone?" 

''  For  the  excellent  reason  that  the  poor  gentleman  is  dead. 
He  died  of  a  fall  from  his  horse  ten  days  ago." 


BEATEICE.  41Y 

Beatrice  looked  at  him  in  dreary  amazement. 

"Will  Heaven  never  weary  of  favouring  that  man?"  she 
asked  ;  "  I  suppose  he  bribed  the  horse  to  do  it !  Do  not  smile, 
Mr.  Brown,  he  is  capable  of  it,  ay !  and  of  ten  times  more. 
God  help  his  poor  little  daughter  !  Poor  little  innocent !  She  is 
but  a  name,  which  they  are  using  against  me,  and  however  it 
fares  with  me  she  must  suffer.  Well,  I  cannot  help  her  now. 
I  have  my  own  battle  to  fight,  and  though  you  seem  to  think  it  a 
hard  one,  I  shall  prevail  against  them,  Mr.  Brown." 

"  I  hope  so,"  civilly  said  Mr.  Brown,  and  he  left  her. 

And  Beatrice  remained  alone,  sitting  in  old  Mr.  Carnoosie's 
chair,  looking  at  the  fire,  as  he  had  looked  at  it  twelve  years 
before,  feeling,  as  he  had  felt,  the  bitterness  of  a  desolate  lot,  and 
bearing,  though  she  knew  it  not,  the  burden  of  ill-got  wealth. 

By  the  time  Mr.  Brown  called  the  next  day  Miss  Gordon's 
mind  was  made  up.  She  would  yield  the  fifty  pounds  annuity 
her  weak  mother  had  bequeathed  to  Mr.  Gervoise,  but  in  the  mat- 
ter of  Carnoosie  she  would  resist  to  the  utmost,  and  she  would 
stay  in  London  to  do  so.  She  gave  up  her  journey,  and  devoted 
herself  to  her  dreary  task  with  sudden  ardour.  Mr.  Brown  had 
read  the  will,  and  declared  it  had  weak  points,  but  Beatrice's 
resolve  was  not  shaken ;  he  confessed  that  her  resistance  could 
be  prolonged  for  years  ;  and  this  intelligence,  which  at  a  happier 
time  would  have  seemed  so  dreary,  now  gave  her  a  stern  sort  of 
pleasure.  The  spirit  of  strife  had  entered  her  very  heart.  With 
morbid  avidity  she  listened  to  Mr.  Brown's  professional  particu- 
lars. She  followed  him  eagerly  as  he  mapped  out  for  her  the 
course  her  case  would  probably  pursue.  She  went  with  him  from 
court  to  court,  within  the  realms  of  Chancery  itself,  without  dis- 
may. True,  the  end  might  be  ruin ;  true,  she  might  be  com- 
pelled to  give  up  Carnoosie,  but  by  that  time  the  suit  would  have 
cost  fabulous  sums,  which  must  fall  on  the  estate.  She  might 
be  ruined,  but  so  would  her  enemy.  If  he  made  her  poor,  he 
could  not  enjoy  that  of  which  he  robbed  her. 

She  brooded  over  these  thoughts  until  they  mastered  her. 
She  fell  under  their  dominion,  she  knew  it  and  did  not  rebel. 
She  had  opened  her  gates  to  the  evil  spirits,  and  welcomed  instead 
of  casting  them  forth.  They  came,  and  with  them  they  brought 
others,  a  direful  kindred  and  a  sad  progeny.  Gilbert,  where 
were  you  then  ?  Now,  if  ever,  is  the  time  to  prove  your  friend- 
ship and  your  faith.  And  did  Beatrice  think  of  him  ?  Ay ! 
daily,  hourly  sometimes.  Ay  !  she  thought  of  him  with  infinite 
bitterness,  with  mingled  admiration  and  resentment.  She  ad- 
18* 


418  BEATEICE. 

mired  that  cold  masterdom  over  self  which  kept  him  aloof  whilst 
she  was  in  sorrow,  but  she  hated  it  too.  Surely  he  was  his  father's 
son  after  all,  not  in  wickedness  or  in  guile,  but  in  the  misery  he 
had  caused  her.  To  her  sorrow  had  she  ever  known  these  two 
men.  Fatal  had  been  the  hate  of  one,  and  no  less  fatal  the  love 
of  the  other.  But  she  would  show  both  that  she  was  not  to  be 
braved  with  impunity.  She  would  defeat  Mr.  Gervoise,  and  she 
would  compel  his  son  to  behold  what  he  would  call  her  spiritual, 
ruin.  He  was  pious ;  then  he  should  see  what  his  father  had 
made  of  her,  and  what  he  could  have  saved  her  from  had  he  but 
loved  her ! 

These  were  but  some  of  the  thoughts  over  which  Beatrice 
Gordon  brooded  in  that  dreary  old  house  which  consorted  so  well 
with  her  new  mood.  She  had  sent  John  to  Carnoosie  for  some 
old  law  books,  and  day  after  day  she  sat  in  Mr.  Carnoosie's  chair 
and  read  the  heavy  volumes  ;  and  when  she  was  tired  of  the  task, 
she  bent  forward  with  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  and  her  cheeks 
on  the  palms  of  her  hands,  and  looked  at  the  burning  coals,  and 
lived  over  again  the  last  two  bitter  years.  Mr.  Brown's  visits 
were  no  interruption  to  this  morbid  mood.  He  came  often,  not 
half  so  often  as  she  wished.  She  had  acquired  some  knowledge 
of  dreary  histories  like  her  own,  and  could  hear  him  and  not  be 
wholly  ignorant.  He  vainly  tried  to  impress  upon  her  that  she 
need  not  take  all  this  trouble,  and  had  better  not  let  her  thoughts 
dwell  on  this  subject. 

"  That  is  my  life  now,"  she  replied,  "  and  I  can  live  for 
nothing  else." 

Matters  had  gone  on  thus  for  some  time,  when  one  morning 
Beatrice  awoke  with  a  throbbing  headache,  and  pains  in  all  her 
limbs.  ^ 

"  Am  I  going  to  be  ill?"  she  thought,  with  a  sort  of  horror. 

She  compelled  herself  to  rise  and  dress,  but  she  could  do  no 
more.     Illness  had  really  seized  and  conquered  her. 

''  Send  for  a  doctor,"  she  said  to  her  maid. 

"What  doctor,  ma'am?"  asked  the  girl,  frightened  at  her 
looks. 

"  The  first  John  can  get.    I  am  ill,  very  ill ! " 

She  sank  back  in  her  chair,  shivering  and  faint.  Doctors  are 
abundant  in  London.  A  medical  man  resided  in  the  house  next 
Miss  Gordon's,  and  he  happened  to  be  within.  He  came,  a  gen- 
tlemanlike and  acute-looking  man,  whose  appearance  inspired 
Beatrice  with  immediate  confidence.  He  sat  down  by  her  side, 
felt  her  pulse,  questioned  her,  and  ordered  but  one  thing,  rest. 


BEATEICE.  419 

"  You  have  been  anxious  and  busy  of  late,"  he  said,  not 
questioning,  but  taking  the  fact  for  granted.  "  There  is  but  one 
cure  for  you  now,  immediate  and  absolute  repose." 

''  But  I  cannot  rest,"  feverishly  said  Beatrice,  "  I  cannot,  in- 
deed. I  have  a  law-suit,  a  most  important  law-suit,  which  I  must 
attend  to.     So  you  see  I  cannot  rest." 

"  I  see,"  replied  the  doctor,  "  that  you  will  be  in  bed  to-mor- 
row, and  that  it  will  be  physically  impossible  for  you  to  attend  to 
any  law-suit,  howsoever  important.  So  I. advise  you  to  place  the 
matter  in  safe  hands  at  once,  for,  I  repeat  it,  to-morrow  you  will 
no  more  have  the  power  than  you  will  have  the  inclination  to 
attend  to  it." 

"  You  are  in  earnest,  quite  in  earnest?"  said  Beatrice,  struck 
with  dismay. 

"  I  am,  indeed,  in  sober  earnest." 

"And  shall  I  be  long  ill?" 

"  I  think  we  may  count  some  weeks." 

Beatrice  guessed  that  weeks  might  be  months,  and  what  was 
to  become  of  her  suit  during  that  time  ? 

"  Heaven  itself  is  against  me,  and  for  that  man,"  she  thought, 
with  infinite  bitterness. 

"  Perhaps  I  may  be  better  this  evening,"  she  said,  rallying, 
and  not  knowing  how  the  look  of  her  glittering  dark  eyes,  burning 
with  fever,  belied  the  assumption  of  being  better.  "  I  have  a 
strong  will,  I  believe,  and  sometimes  will  and  energy  can  con- 
quer the  body." 

"  Will  and  energy  can  conquer  weakness,  not  disease.  You 
have  a  genuine  illness,  which  has  been  coming  on  a  long  time — 
a  low,  nervous  fever,  which  science  can  conquer,  but  to  which 
you  must  submit." 

"  Nevertheless,  call  again  this  evening,"  said  Beatrice,  "  I 
feel  as  if  I  should  be  better." 

"  As  you  please." 

The  Doctor  was  scarcely  gone  when  Miss  Gordon  rang  for 
John. 

"  John,"  she  said,  eagerly,  when  he  answered  the  call,  "  go 
at  once  for  Mr.  Brown.  Tell  him  I  am  very  ill,  and  that  he 
must  come  immediately  ;  do  you  hear,  immediately  !  Nothing 
must  prevent  him — nothing." 

"  For  who  knows,"  thought  Beatrice,  though  she  did  not  say 
so,  "  who  knows  if  my  mind  will  be  my  own?  I  feel  a  strange 
confusion  here.  Oh  !  if  I  were  to  go  mad  now,  what  a  triumph 
for  that  man  ! " 


420  BEATRICE. 

She  brooded  over  the  dangerous  thought  till  she  began  to 
fear  that  it  would  work  its  own  fulfilment.  Then  she  tried  to 
banish  it,  and  to  think  of  happier  themes.  She  could  find  none. 
If  she  went  to  her  childhood,  her  enemy  was  there  ;  if  she  re- 
called her  youth,  his  yoke  was  heavy  upon  it.  He  stood  like  an 
evil  shadow  between  her  and  her  mother  ;  his  hand  ever  divided 
her  from  Gilbert ;  wherever  she  turned,  his  hateful  image  was 
present,  nothing  was  safe  and  sacred  from  him.  Her  happiest 
as  well  as  her  saddest  hours  had  known  him,  and  acknowledged 
his  empire. 

"  Please,  ma*am,  here  is  Mr.  Brown,''  said  the  voice  of  her 
maid. 

And  Mr.  Brown  entered  the  room,  and  looked  in  mute  con- 
sternation at  Beatrice,  who  sat  in  her  chair,  flushed  and  fev^erish. 

"  Mr.  Brown,"  she  said,  in  a  rapid,  excited  way,  "  I  must  be 
brief,  yet  say  much  ;  I  am  going  to  be  very  ill." 

Mr.  Brown  had  no  difiiculty  in  believing  it.  He  saw  that 
this  was  no  future  contingency,  but  an  actual  reality.  Beatrice 
was  already  ill,  and  very  ill  too.     She  continued  : 

"  I  felt,  and  still  feel  unwell,  but  I  thought  I  could  bear  up. 
The  doctor,  who  has  not  long  left  me,  says  no  ;  he  condemns  me 
to  be  weak  and  helpless  by  to-morrow,  and  every  passing  mo- 
ment convinces  me  he  spoke  too  truly.  To-morrow,  then,  I 
shall  be  unable  to  direct  you,  unable  to  hear  you,  but  to-day  is 
mine.  Tell  me,  then,  and  tell  me  quickly,  how  matters  are 
going  on." 

She  fixed  her  dark  eyes  full  upon  him  with  feverish  eager- 
ness. Mr.  Brown  returned  the  look  with  one  of  sincere  sym- 
pathy. It  was  hard  indeed  not  to  pity  this  young,  unprotected, 
and  lonely  girl,  fighting  her  hard  battle  alone,  and  fighting  it  to 
the  last,  with  the  hand  of  disease  full  and  heavy  upon  her. 

"  There  is  nothing  new  going  on  now,"  he  said  gently,  "  noth- 
ing whatever." 

"  Then  my  illness  will  not  interfere  ?  " 

"  Not  for  the  present  at  least." 

"  God  knows  how  long  it  will  last,  and  how  it  will  end," 
very  sadly  said  Beatrice ;  "  if  I  die,  Carnoosie  goes  to  Mrs. 
Antony  Gervoise,  and  the  suit  is  at  an  end,  and  I  am  conquered, 
not  merely  by  death,  but  by  my  mortal  enemies." 

"  Do  not  agitate  yourself,  my  dear  madam,  and  pray  take  a 
more  hopeful  view  of  your  case." 

"  Mr.  Brown,  it  is  a  very  hard  lot,  is  mine.  I  am  not  in 
my  own  hands,  and  my  bitter  necessity  compels  me  to  trust  you 


BEATRICE.  421 

entirely.  Do  not  mistake  my  meaning.*  I  do  not  mistrust  you. 
But  if  I  were  not  the  solitary  being  I  am,  there  would  be  some 
one  to  take  my  place  now,  some  second  self." 

"  There  are  not  many  second  selves  in  business,"  said  Mr. 
Brown,  a  little  drily. 

"  Perhaps  not — at  all  events,  I  leave  my  case  in  your  hands 
— ^I  have  no  more  to  say,"  she  added,  after  a  pause. 

"  Shall  I  call  again  to-morrow?"  asked  Mr.  Brown  ;  "  you 
may  be  better." 

"  You  need  not,"  replied  Beatrice,  in  a  tone  of  evident  dis- 
couragement ;  "  the  doctor's  words  are  coming  true  very  fast.  I 
can  attend  to  nothing." 

And  very  fast  indeed  was  the  doctor's  prophecy  fulfilled. 
Long  before  he  called  that  evening,  Beatrice  was  prostrate  and 
conquered.  It  would  have  done  Mr.  Gervoise's  heart  good,  if  he 
could  have  seen  the  proud  girl  now,  as  she  lay  on  her  bed  tossing 
and  moaning  in  fever  and  pain  and  utter  helplessness,  chastened 
by  a  mightier  hand  than  his. 


CHAPTER  LI. 

Long  and  bitter  was  the  battle  between  life  and  death. 
Several  times  there  were  strong  chances  that  the  law  courts  of 
England  should  not  be  troubled  with  another  great  will  case,  and 
that  a  judge  to  whom  Mr.  Gervoise  had  not  thought  of  appeal- 
ing would  end  the  litigation  between  himself  and  Beatrice 
Gordon. 

At  length  life  prevailed ;  but  doubtful  and  precarious  was 
her  victory,  and  Doctor  Leveson,  who  was  unremitting  in  his 
attendance  upon  Beatrice,  told  her,  in  guarded  language  indeed, 
but  still  in  language  which  she  could  understand,  that  her  life 
was  in  her  own  hands  :  happiness,  peace,  and  the  absence  of  all 
strong  emotion  might  save  her ;  even  as  trouble,  care,  and  anx- 
iety might  bring  on  a  fatal  relapse.  It  was  plain  he  knew  some- 
thing of  her  present  history,  and  Beatrice  heard  him  with  ap- 
parent docility,  and  with  secret  mistrust. 

Her  illness  had  been  like  a  long,  feverish,  and  troubled 
dream,  and  her  convalescence  was  as  the  wearisome  wakening. 
She  returned  to  the  ways  and  uses  of  life  with  a  sense  of  fatigue 
and  almost  of  pain ;  loathing  every  surrounding  object,  hating 
the  dreary  room,  the  wet  streets,  and  dull  fire,  the  old  furniture, 
which  were  all  she  had  to  look  upon  as  she  sat  for  the  first  time 
in  her  chair.  It  was  the  first  time,  and  she  was  still  weak  and 
faint,  yet  Mr.  Brown  was  coming,  and  Beatrice's  first  act  had 
been  to  send  for  him. 

Mr.  Brovm  had  other  business,  no  doubt,  for  he  eame  late. 
Beatrice  made  no  effort  to  rise  on  seeing  him,  but  welcomed  him 
in  a  cold,  languid  sort  of  fashion.  "With  more  politeness  than 
truth,  Mr.  Brown  expressed  himself  pleased  to  see  her  looking 
so  much  better. 

"  I  am  much  better,"  she  replied,  "  and  that  is  why  Doctor 
LeT»eson  allowed  me  to  get  up." 

"  You  do  not  look  strong,  but  we  will  not  talk  about  business, 
so—" 


BEATEICE.  423 


"  "WTiy  not?  "  interrupted  Beatrice. 

"  I  am  sure  that  Doctor  Leveson  would  object- 


"  I  cannot  help  it,"  she  interrupted  again ;  *'  besides,  sus- 
pense would  do  me  more  harm  than  any  thing  you  can  tell  me." 

Mr.  Brown  was  silent. 

"  "What  news  have  you  got? "  she  asked. 

"You  mean  legal  news  ?  Oh!  I  shall  come  to  that  pres- 
ently. In  the  meanwhile,  allow  me  to  ask  you  if  you  are  equal 
to  another  important  matter  ?  " 

"  There  is  but  one  important  matter  for  me,  Mr.  Brown — 
you  know  it  and  shun  it.  Why  so  ?  Tell  me  all.  I  know  well 
enough  there  is  not  much  to  tell  me." 

"  Quite  the  reverse,  I  assure  you.  I  have  a  good  deal  to  tell 
you." 

"  Indeed ! " 

"  Yes.  The  fact  is,  the  case  has  assumed  a  new  aspect — ^I 
may  say  a  totally  different  aspect  from  that  which  it  wore  at 
first." 

And  Mr.  Brown  looked  hard  at  her,  as  if  to  watch  how  she 
would  take  this. 

"  Indeed !     Pray  tell  me  about  it." 

"  Perhaps  you  will  allow  me  to  begin  at  the  beginning." 

"  Pray  do." 

"  You  remember  that  three  pleas  were  urged  against  Mr. 
Carnoosie's  will ;  that  it  was  not  duly  executed  ;  that  Mr.  Car- 
noosie  was  not  of  sound  mind  at  the  time  ;  that  he  was  subject 
to  undue  influence.  Well,  Miss  Gordon,  I  am  bound  to  say  that, 
so  far  as  I  can  learn,  the  will  was  duly  executed ;  let  us  there- 
fore consider  the  two  other  pleas.  Mr.  Carnoosie,  if  not  actually 
insane,  was,  at  least,  in  such  a  state  of  mind  as  to  throw  strong 
doubts  on  his  sanity.  Did  you  ever  hear  any  thing  of  the 
kind?" 

"  I  heard  that  he  was  odd." 

"He  was  more  than  odd.  Miss  Gordon.  There  are  people 
living  who  say  that  he  was  mad.  One  of  the  medical  men  who 
attended  him  has  told  me  so.  There  are  strange  stories  still 
told  about  him.  Mr.  Carnoosie  had  lost  his  two  sons,  and  he 
hated  to  see  the  children  of  other  people.  One  of  his  tenants 
having  unluckily  called  upon  him,  and  brought  with  him  his  two 
boys,  to  whom  Mr.  Carnoosie  had  formerly  been  partial,  the  old 
gentleman  was  so  indignant  that  he  deliberately  ordered  John — 
the  same  John  who  is  still  in  your  service — to  take  and  throw 
them  into  the  river." 


424  BEATRICE. 

An  ironical  smile  curled  Beatrice's  delicate  lips. 

"And  did  John  throw  the  children  into  the  river?"  she 
asked,  with  an  air  of  imperial  indifference  to  the  result  of  Mr. 
Carnoosie's  command. 

"Not  that  I  know  of,"  drily  replied  Mr.  Brown.  "But 
these  are  no  idle  rumours.  Miss  Gordon ;  the  evidence,  so  far  as 
it  goes,  is  not  to  be  shaken,  and  it  certainly  proves  Mr.  Carnoosie 
to  have  been  in  a  strange  state  of  mind  at  the  time  he  made  his 
will." 

"Poor  old  man!"  said  Beatrice.  "I  suppose  every  idle 
word  he  uttered  in  passion  or  in  temper  will  be  raked  up  now, 
and  turned  into  evidence.  Do  you  think  that  evidence  will 
stand?" 

"  I  do  not  say  so  ;  but  there  is  evidence  on  that  second  plea, 
and,  I  am  sorry  to  add,  that  on  the  third  there  is  not  merely  evi- 
dence, but  certainty.  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  when  he  made  his 
will  the  master  of  Carnoosie  never  intended  to  bequeath  it  to 
you." 

Beatrice  gave  Mr.  Brown  an  amazed  look,  but  merely  say- 
ing :  "  Pray  go  on,  Mr.  Brown,"  she  sank  back  in  her  chair 
with  a  wearied  air. 

"  Mr.  Carnoosie's  will  was  executed  in  this  house,  and  prob- 
ably in  this  room,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  looking  around  him.  "  And 
I  can  tell  you  the  history  of  that  will  as  if  I  had  been  present. 
Miss  Gordon.  Mr.  Carnoosie  had  several  strong  feelings  and 
prejudices.  He  disliked  your  father,  he  hated  the  Catholics,  he 
always  said  that  no  woman  should  come  into  Carnoosie  if  he 
could  help  it.  Now,  his  will  is  in  contradiction  with  all  this,  for 
it  bequeathes  his  property  to  the  Mr.  Gordon  whom  he  dislikes, 
who  is  a  Catholic,  and  whose  only  child  is  a  girl.  Moreover, 
the  wording  of  the  will  seems  to  show  that  Mr.  Carnoosie 
thought  Mr.  Gordon  was  the  father  of  several  boys,  and  of  boys 
only,  for  it  speaks  of  children,  and  makes  no  exception  of  the 
girl  or  girls.  I  say  that  all  this  appears  in  the  will,  and  I  am 
sorry  to  tell  you  that  all  this  is  proved  to  have  been  the  case." 

"  How  so  ?  "  sharply  asked  Beatrice. 

"  Simply  thus.  To  prove  that  the  will  was  duly  executed, 
the  two  witnesses  who  saw  it  signed  by  Mr.  Carnoosie  were  ex- 
amined ;  one  was  John,  whose  testimony  was  unimportant ;  the 
other  was  a  Mrs.  Scot,  whose  evidence,  though  terribly  damaging 
to  Mr.  Gervoise's  character,  was  ruin  to  you.  That  the  will  was 
duly  executed,  she  proves ;  that  Mr.  Carnoosie  was  sane,  she 
declares ;  but  that  he  was  wholly  under  Mr.  Gervoise's  influ- 


BEATRICE.  425 

ence,  and  that  he  was  completely  deceived  by  that  gentleman  for 
your  benefit,  is  conclusive,  from  all  she  says.  This  woman 
seems,  in  telling  the  truth,  to  have  been  actuated  by  a  strong 
but  blind  feeling  of  resentment  against  Mr.  Gervoise.  I  do  not 
think  she  was  at  all  aware  that  in  ruining  his  reputation  she  was 
also  rendering  him  a  high  pecuniary  service  ;  but  she  did  both,  and 
the  result  to  you  was  disastrous.  It  is  plain,  from  her  evidence, 
that  Mr.  Carnoosie  was  a  very  weak  old  man,  and  that  Mr.  Ger- 
voise had  blinded  him  completely.  Thus  he  persuaded  him  that 
Mr.  Gordon,  who  had  been  dead  a  year,  and  whose  widow  he 
was  going  to  marry,  was  living,  and  was  the  father  of  three 
boys  ;  some  other  minute  and  evidently  truthful  particulars  Mrs. 
Scot  gave,  but  I  will  not  trouble  you  with  them.  I  have  said 
enough,  and  more  than  enough,  to  show  you  that  this  is  a  des- 
perate case." 

"  Mrs.  Scot  always  hated  me,  and  it  is  to  ruin  me  that  she 
has  spoken,"  said  Beatrice,  sitting  up  in  her  chair,  and  looking 
flushed  and  roused.  "  She  is  in  a  league  with  Mr.  Ger- 
voise  " 

"  No,"  interrupted  Mr.  Brown,  "  she  hates  him  bitterly. 
There  is  no  league  between  them." 

"  I  tell  you  she  is  in  a  league  with  him  ;  but  I  say  that  her 
testimony  is  false  ;  thaji  the  will  is  a  good  will,  and  on  it  I  take 
my  stand.  It  shall  be  tried  in  every  court  in  England  in  which 
it  can  be  tried  before  I  will  confess  myself  conquered." 

"  You  cannot  be  in  earnest,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  "  or  rather 
you  cannot  have  calculated  the  fearful  cost  of  such  a  battle." 

''Who  would  calculate  when  the  matter  at  issue  is  life  or 
death?" 

"  But  where  will  the  money  to  cover  your  expenses  come 
from  if  you  fail  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Brown,  I  shall  not  fail.  However,  if  you  wish  to 
withdraw  from  me,  say  so — it  is  not  too  late  !  " 

"  I  have  no  such  intention,"  replied  Mr.  Brown  ;  "  for,  to  tell 
you  the  truth,  Miss  Gordon,  I  have  done  my  duty  by  you,  and 
served  your  best  interests,  by  accepting  Mr.  Antony  Gervoise's 
offer." 

"  Offer  !  what  offer?  "  cried  Beatrice. 

"  His  object  was  to  save  his  father  from  further  exposure,  of 
course,  but  with  that  I  had  nothing  to  do.  He  offered  a  com- 
promise and  I  accepted  it." 

"What?"  asked  Beatrice,  in  a  tone  which  startled  Mr. 
Brown. 


426  BEATRICE. 

"  I  have  compromised  this  matter  with  Mr.  Antony  Ger- 
voise  and  his  wife,"  very  deliberately  said  Mr.  Brown.  "  You 
will  have  what  you  could  never  hope  to  have  if  the  case  had 
gone  on,  five  hundred  a  year  for  your  life,  and  the  house  you  are 
in." 

Beatrice  rose  slowly  from  her  chair  and  fronted  the  lawyer. 
Her  dark  eyes  burned  like  fire  in  her  white  and  wasted  face. 

"  And  Carnoosie  !  "  she  said,  ''  who  is  to  have  Carnoosie  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Antony  Gervoise." 

"  Never  ! — never  shall  she,  or  rather  these  men,  have  it  un- 
der her  name.     I  will  die  first !  " 

Mr.  Brown  looked  very  much  amazed. 

"  Miss  Gordon,"  he  said,  "  I  expected  more  conciliation 
from  you,  after  what  I  have  told  you." 

"  Conciliation  ! — conciliation  about  Carnoosie,  and  with  my 
miortal  enemies  ! — never  !     I  repeat  it — I  will  die  first !  " 

"•  It  is  too  late,  however,  for  resistance,"  rejoined  Mr.  Brown, 
rather  sharply.  "  You  left  this  matter  in  my  hands,  and,  acting 
on  your  authority,  I  have  compromised  the  matter,  and  Mrs. 
Antony  Gervoise  is  even  now  in  possession." 

"  He  has  got  Carnoosie? — ^you  gave  him  up  Carnoosie?" 

"Yes,"  bluntly  replied  Mr.  Brown;  "and  by  so  doing  I 
saved  you  from  a  disgraceful  and  ruinous  defeat." 

Beatrice  clenched  her  small  hands  and  compressed  her  lips. 
She  would  not  speak  at  first.  Her  passion  and  indignation  would 
have  been  too  great.  When  she  at  length  addressed  Mr.  Brown 
it  was  with  all  the  natural  haughtiness  and  imperiousness  of  her 
temper. 

"  Mr.  Brown,"  she  said,  "  you  are  mistaken  in  me.  You 
will  find  it  to  your  cost.  All  you  have  done  shall  be  undone,  and 
your  treason  shall  bring  both  loss  and  shame  upon  you.  My  case 
has  not  been  tried  out,  and  Carnoosie  is  mine  still ;  I  will  eject 
the  insolent  intruders,  and  I  wi]]  compel  you  to  cancel  the  no  less 
insolent  compromise  you  made  in  my  name.  I  am  not  so  igno- 
rant of  the  law  as  not  to  know  that  your  powers  are  limited,  and 
you  shall  find  to  your  cost  that  you  have  exceeded  them." 

She  sat  down  as  she  concluded  speaking,  and  Mr.  Brown 
looked  at  her  amazed,  and,  legal  man  though  he  was,  somewhat 
indignant. 

"  Madam,"  he  said,  with  some  heat,  "  I  can  make  allowance 
for  your  feelings';  but  do  not  take  my  word  on  this  matter. 
Read  over  Mrs.  Scot's  evidence,  consult  some  other  professional 
man,  and  let  him  only  take  the  pains  I  have  taken  to  arrive  at 


BEATEICE. 


427 


the  truth,  and  he  will  tell  you  that  five  hundred  a  year  and  the 
house  you  live  in  is  a  magnificent  compromise.  I  am  only 
amazed  to  have  got  it." 

A  low  scornful  laugh  was  Beatrice's  reply. 

"  Oh  !  if  you  have  allowed  yourself  to  be  deluded  by  that  ser- 
pent I  must  wonder  at  nothing.  To  begin  with  this  house — are 
you  aware  that  it  is  not  a  freehold,  and  that  the  ground  lease  will 
soon  be  out  ?  Moreover,  why  did  you  not  ask  for  a  thousand  a 
year  instead  of  five  hundred  ?  Mr.  Antony  Gervoise  would  have 
given  one  quite  as  readily  as  the  other,  for  he  has  not  the  least 
intention  o£,  paying  it.  Mr.  Brown,  you  have  injured  me  fear- 
fully, but  I  could  almost  pity  you  when  I  see  you  falling  so  easily 
into  that  man's  trap.  Why,  if  I  were  so  mad  as  to  accept  these 
terms,  I  should  merely  be  condemning  myself  to  life-long  litiga- 
tion, without  the  compensation  of  enjoying  Carnoosie  in  the  mean- 
while, and  the  chance  of  keeping  it  in  the  end.  However,  I  re- 
peat it,  I  have  no  intention  of  accepting  this  compromise." 

"  The  thing  is  done,"  put  in  Mr.  Brown,  rather  warmly ; 
"  and  by  that  agreement,  which  I  maintain  to  be  a  good  one,  we 
must  both  abide." 

"  I  tell  you  again  that  I  will  not  abide  by  it." 

"  And  allow  me  to  tell  you  that  you  will  find  it  no  easy  task 
to  undo  what  I  have  done  with  your  authority,  although  mthout 
your  knowledge,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  rising. 

"  I  suppose  so,"  answered  Beatrice,  with  much  bitterness, 
and  rising  too  as  she  spoke,  "  but  I  have  not  yet  acknowledged 
myself  conquered,  and  I  will  not  begin  to  do  so  now." 

"•Allow  me  to  hope  that  you  will  reconsider  your  decision," 
very  gravely  said  Mr.  Brown  ;  "  for  the  present  I  will  not  pur- 
sue the  argument  further." 

He  bawed  formally,  and  left  her. 

"  There  goes  another  enemy  ! "  thought  Beatrice. 

She  wronged  Mr.  Brown ;  he  was  much  displeased  indeed, 
for  he  had  acted  for  the  best,  and  thought  he  deserved  the  thanks, 
and  not  the  bitter  reproaches,  of  his  client ;  but  he  was  too  much 
a  man  of  business  to  feel  wrath,  or  even  more  than  passing  re- 
sentment, against  Miss  Gordon.  With  her  present  mood,  in- 
deed, he  did  not  trouble  himself.  He  knew  it  would  calm  down  ; 
experience  had  told  him  what  became  of  such  mighty  resolves  to 
resist  to  death  and  never  be  conquered. 


CHAPTER  Ln. 

Mr.  Brown  went,  thinking  thus,  and  Beatrice  listened  to  his 
steps  slowly  going  down  the  old  staircase.  A  sort  of  stupor  had 
followed  on  her  indignation,  and  left  her  weak,  powerless,  and 
inert.  It  seemed  incredible  that  she  should  have  wakened  mis- 
tress of  Carnoosie  that  morning,  and  be  robbed  and  plundered 
before  the  night.  She  looked  at  the  wax  light  which  burned  on 
her  table,  contending  with  the  dull  light  of  day  behind  the  yellow 
window  blind,  and  she  wondered  what  o'clock  it  was.  Scarcely 
five,  her  watch  ticking  on  the  mantel-shelf  above  the  fireplace 
told  her.  Scarcely  five,  and  it  was  all  over,  and  Carnoosie  was 
surrendered  to  her  enemies.  Was  it — could  it  be  true  ?  There 
is  something  so  tangible  in  house  and  land  that  it  is  hard  indeed 
to  understand  how  a  few  words  or  the  stroke  of  a  pen  can  despoil 
us  of  either  or  of  both.  Beatrice  could  not  believe  it,  and  yet 
something  stole  within  her — a  subtle  consciousness — that  it  was 
so  ;  that  she  was  betrayed,  defeated,  and  conquered  ;  that  resist- 
ance was  useless,  and  that  the  time  for  it  had  passed,  a  dreary 
belief  in  her  own  ruin  and  undoing.  "  Surely  it  cannot  be  !  " 
she  said  half  aloud,  and  she  shivered  as  slie  bent  over  the  fire,  in 
the  very  attitude  of  old  Mr.  Carnoosie.  Ah  !  if  that  old  room 
could  have  told  tales,  what  would  Beatrice  have  thought  of  the 
means  which  had  made  her  mistress  of  Carnoosie,  and  of  that  old 
house  where  she  sat  brooding  over  her  conquered  fate.  Con- 
quered indeed,  for  what  was  to  become  of  her  ?  The  humiliation 
of  the  compromise  she  would  not  submit  to  ;  better  beggary  than 
food  bought  at  that  cost. 

What,  then,  was  she  to  do?  If  Mr.  Brown,  in  whom  she 
had  trusted,  had  deserted  her,  what  attorney  would  undertake 
her  cause,  and  whom  could  she  trust  with  it?  "  God  help  me  ! " 
thought  Beatrice,  in  the  bitterness  of  her  heart,* "for  in  man  I 
have  no  faith." 

Almost  all  the  doors  of  the  wide  old  rooms  were  open,  and  in 
the  silence  of  the  house  Beatrice  distinctly  heard  a  man's  step 


BEATKICE.  429 

coming  up  the  staircase.  Who  was  it  ?  Not  John.  Mr.  Brown  ? 
Why  was  he  coming  back  ?  The  step  stopped  on  the  landing. 
Beatrice  rose  nervously,  and  stood  facing  the  door ;  the  farthest 
was  slowly  pushed  open,  and  a  man  appeared  on  the  threshold. 

"  Miss  Gordon,"  he  said  hesitatingly. 

"  I  am  Miss  Gordon,"  replied  Beatrice,  and,  seizing  the  light, 
she  came  forward.  She  stood  still  after  taking  a  few  steps.  It 
was  Gilbert  who  stood  before  her  ! 

There  had  been  a  time  when  his  sudden  appearance  would 
have  sent  the  blood  in  tumultuous  tide  to  Beatrice's  heart.  Now 
that  heart  felt  dead  and  cold  within  her,  and  she  could  scarcely 
summon  a  few  words  to  welcome  him.  But  Gilbert  seemed  more 
shocked  with  her  altered  appearance  than  with  her  altered  manner. 

"  Pray  take  a  seat,"  said  Beatrice,  sinking  wearily  in  her  own 
chair,  and  pointing  to  that  Mr.  Brown  had  left  vacant. 

Silently  Gilbert  sat  down,  and  silently  he  looked  at  her,  seek- 
ing for  the  face  he  had  so  fondly  loved  in  days  gone  by. 

Ah  !  he  should  not  have  sought  her  had  he  been  wise  ;  this 
pale,  faded,  and  wasted  girl  was  not  that  other  gii-1  with  the  ra- 
diant eyes,  bright  as  the  morning,  and  whose  blooming  face  had 
haunted  his  sleeping  and  waking  dreams  so  long.  She  was  not 
that  fond  Beatrice  whom  he  had  so  often  clasped  to  his  heart,  and 
who  had  given  him  a  love  so  ardent  and  so  true.  She  was  not, 
or,  if  she  were,  woe  for  the  changes  which  life  can  bring  !  And 
oh  !  Beatrice,  you  should  never  have  seen  him  again — never ! 
You  should  have  left  him  at  least  an  image  of  life  and  love  to 
survive  the  wreck  of  his  youth.  So  she  thought  as  she  saw  him 
look  at  her  still  in  sorrowful  surprise. 

"  You  have  been  ill,"  he  said,  at  length. 

"  111  and  worried,"  replied  Beatrice,  bitterly. 

"  Yes,"  rejoined  Gilbert,  with  downcast  eyes.  "I  went  to 
Carnoosie " 

"  And  you  found  them  there  !  "  she  cried,  with  kindling  eyes. 
"  Yes,  I  have  been  basely  betrayed,  but  when  you  see  them  you 
can  tell  them  all  is  not  over  yet." 

"  There  was  no  one  in  Carnoosie  when  I  was  there,"  said 
Gilbert ;  "  and  God  knows,"  he  added,  in  a  low  voice,  "  if  I  shall 
ever  see  them  again  !  " 

At  once  Beatrice  softened.  She  held  out  her  hand  to  him, 
and  said  very  gently  : 

t'  Forgive  me,  Gilbert^  but  this  is  a  bitter  hour  in  my  life, 
and  I  could  not  be  just  to  you  ;  forgive  me  ;  it  were  better  for 


4:30  BEATRICE. 

you,  poor  Gilbert,  never  to  have  seen  me — I  have  ever  been  a 
thorn  in  your  lot,  and  must  be  so  still !  " 

"  I  have  nothing  to  forgive,"  replied  Gilbert.  "  I  must  stand 
by  right  v^^herever  I  see  it ;  kindred  does  not  make  justice,  and, 
alas  !  Beatrice,  you  have  been  cruelly  used." 

"  Gilbert,  it  is  not  over  yet,"  said  Beatrice,  with  suppressed 
indignation.  "  The  contest  has  but  begun,  and  I  will  fight  it 
out  to  the  last." 

Gilbert  raised  his  calm  eyes  to  hers. 

"  Beatrice,"  he  said  steadily,  "  do  you  believe  in  my  in- 
tegrity?" 

"  You  know  I  do." 

"  Well,  then,  submit  to  your  defeat." 

"Submit!     Why  so?"  ^ 

"  Because,  though  you  have  been  cruelly  used,  right  is  not  on 
your  side." 

Beatrice  set  her  teeth  firmly,  in  order  not  to  make  some 
cruel  reply  that  would  remind  Gilbert  he  was  Mr.  Gervoise's 
son  after  all ;  but  he  read  her  face,  and  though  he  forgave  her, 
the  pain  of  her  wrongful  thought  pierced  his  very  heart. 

"  Beatrice,"  he  said,  very  gently,  for  he  felt  how  sore  she 
was,  and  how  tenderly  she  must  be  dealt  with,  "  be  lenient  to  me 
if  I,  an  impartial  observer,  cannot  see  this  matter  as  you  see  it. 
Unjust,  indeed,  do  I  hold  the  means  which,  by  giving  you  Car- 
noosie,  have  now  effected  your  ruin ;  but  that  strengthens  the 
fact  that  Mr.  Antony  Gervoise's  case  is  strong  and  yours  weak." 
"  Yes,  you  think  so,  but  I  do  not,"  bitterly  said  Beatrice. 

Gilbert  sighed  deeply. 

"  Life  is  short,"  he  urged,  "  and  the  procedure  of  law  is  very 
slow  in  England  ;  will  you  spend  half  a  lifetime  in  cares  so  wear- 
ing for  the  chance — for  it  is  not  a  certainty — of  success?" 

"  We  jnust  talk  no  more  on- this  subject,"  decidedly  replied 
Beatrice.  "  Say  something  about  yourself,  Gilbert.  How  are 
you  getting  on?     Are  you  married  and  happy?" 

"I  am  not  married,"  he  replied,  as  calmly  as  she  questioned, 
"  and  I  am  getting  on  as  men  in  my  position  do,  neitlier  ill  nor 
well." 

Beatrice  was  silent,  and  looked  moodily  at  the  fire.  She  felt 
sore  with  Gilbert,  and  knew  not  how  to  hide  the  feeling.  She 
little  suspected  how  plainly  she  showed  it  to  his  penetrating 
eye. 

"  Beatrice,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  "  do  you  remember  our  last 
parting  ?  " 


BEATRICE.  4:31 

Beatrice  turned  pale  as  death.  The  remembrances  against 
which  she  had  been  struggling  since  he  entered  the  room  came  to 
her  as  in  a  flood.  Did  she  remember  it  ? — did  she  remember 
youth  and  love,  and  despair  and  happiness,  all  in  one  ?  Oh ! 
what  a  question !  Love  was  dead  indeed,  but  not  the  memory 
of  love,  not  the  bitterness  of  the  contrast  between  the  present  and 
the  past.  Ah !  why  did  he  speak  so  ?  Why  did  he  come  to 
her,  he,  the  man  strong  and  handsome,  she,  the  woman  faded  and 
pale,  and  bearing  to  her  grave,  first  of  all  her  woes,  the  sting  of 
this  grief? 

"  I  see  you  do,"  resumed  Gilbert ;  "  and,  Beatrice,  surely  you 
guess  my  errand  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  doubtfully.  She  knew  his  meaning,  but  it 
brought  no  colour  to  her  faded  cheek.     He  contitiued  : 

"When  I  learned  by  chance  that  Mrs.  Gervoise  was  no  more, 
I  asked  a  friend  to  replace  me  in  Yerville,  and  I  went  over  to 
Carnoosie.  I  was  told  that  you  were  here,  and  when  I  came 
here,  Beatrice,  I  found  you  lying  dangerously  ill  and  un- 
conscious." 

"  You  saw  me?"  she  said  abruptly, 

"  Yes,  I  saw  you  several  times  with  Doctor  Leveson ;  but 
when  you  could  have  known  me  again  I  ceased  coming,  not  to 
the  house,  but  to  your  room ;  Doctor  Leveson  did  not  think  it 
advisable,  nor,  indeed,  did  I.  I  took  some  rooms  in  a  house  op- 
posite, and'  there  I  have  stayed  till  now.  I  tell  you  these  things, 
Beatrice,  because  it  is  plain  to  me  that  Mr.  Brown,  who  was  to 
prepare  you  for  my  visit,  has  not  done  so." 

"  No,  he  did  not." 

"  But  you  know  my  errand.  I  come  to  see  if  old  times  are 
living  or  dead  !     Will  you  marry  me,  Beatrice  ?  " 

Beatrice  turned  full  upon  him. 

" Marry  you? "  she  said,  clasping  her  hands.     Marry  you?" 

"Why  not?" 

"  You  are  generous,  Gilbert,'^ — ^he  made  a  gesture  of  protest 
— "you  are  generous,  I  say  ;  but  I  cannot  say  '  yes'  this  time, 
as  I  did  twice  before.  Poor  Gilbert !  you  came  to  me  thinking 
to  find  the  girl  whom  you  had  known  !  Do  you  think  I  would 
give  you  the  wreck  you  see  now  ?  " 

"  You  are  cruelly  altered,"  replied  Gilbert ;  "  but  for  all  that, 
be  my  wife  ! " 

"  No — formerly  I  had  something  to  give  you.  I  do  not 
speak  of  money,  but  I  had  something  else,  beauty,  if  you  like, 
a  warm  heart,  a  great  worship.     What  I  am  now,  your  eyes 


4:32  BEATEICE. 

tell  you  as  ttey  told  me  the  moment  you  entered  this  room ; 
the  inner  change  is  greater  still.  Gilbert,  I  once  told  you  that 
I  needed  you  as  my  bulwark  against  sin  ;  you  did  not  believe  me, 
or  you  could  not  act  on  that  belief.  Time  has  passed  since  then, 
and  I  have  had  fearful  trials.  I  have  not  gone  through  them  in 
vain.  My  heart  is  seared.  Gilbert,  I  feel  dead  to  love,  dead  to 
all  save  the  spirit  of  strife.  I  honour  you  still — who  that  knows 
you  must  not  ? — but  the  girl's  adoration  is  gone  for  ever." 

Gilbert  smiled,  and  taking  her  hand,  smoothed  it  softly  be- 
tween his  own. 

"How  you  wrong  yourself!"  he  said.  "You  have  been 
very  ill,  but  your  beauty  will  come  back.  You  have  suffered 
keenly,  but  your  heart  is  not  dead ;  what  heart  dies  at  twenty- 
one  ?  And  as  to  your  adoration,  Beatrice,  did  I  ever  ask  you  for 
it  ?     All  I  want  is  to  marry  you  !  " 

Beatrice  withdrew  her  hand  from  his,  and  looked  him  ear- 
nestly in  the  face. 

"  You  want  more  ;  you  want  to  draw  me  from  my  purpose  ! " 

"  I  have  already  said  so." 

"  And  I  have  told  you  it  could  not  be." 

"  Are  you  sure  of  it,  Beatrice  ?  " 

"Am  I  sure  that  I  live?  "  she  passionately  replied.  "  Gil- 
bert, I  will  not  give  up  Carnoosie — I  cannot ! " 

"  You  give  up  what  is  worth  infinitely  more,  Beatrice,  a  gen- 
tle, peaceful,  and  happy  life." 

"  Perhaps  I  do — ^but  I  cannot  help  it." 

Gilbert  looked  at  the  fire,  and  did  not  speak.  He  was  en- 
during a  keen  and  deep  sorrow.  He  had  thought  that,  spite  of 
every  obstacle,  he  might  win  Beatrice ;  he  had  felt  sure  of  her 
ever-enduring  love,  and  now  he  found  that  even  a  short  separa- 
tion had  been  too  great  a  trial  for  his  once  ardent  mistress  ;  that 
worldly  cares  were  paramount  in  the  heart  his  image  had  once 
filled,  and  over  which  it  had  reigned  supreme.  He  took  her 
hand  again  and  made  one  last  effort. 

"  Beatrice  !  Beatrice  ! "  he  said,  "  think  of  it  well ;  this  is  a 
turning-point  in  our  two  lives.  If  ever  we  loved,  let  us  show  it 
now.  Love  is  neither  the  end  nor  the  fulness  of  human  joys, 
but  when  it  has  survived  years  of  sorrow,  when  it  has  outlived 
its  first  ardour  as  well  as  beauty's  first  bloom,  it  is  the  crown  of 
life.  I  came  here  judging  you  by  your  own  heart.  I  have  longed 
for  you  ever  since  we  parted.  When  I  was  happy  I  wanted  you. 
and  when  I  was  not  I  wanted  you  still.  Let  not  the  vain  hope 
of  recovering  what  is  for  ever  lost  blind  you  to  the  true  happiness 


BEATEICE.  433 

of  life — of  woman's  life  especially — ^love,  home,  and  its  joys. 
The  strife  in  which  you  think  of  wasting  your  youth  is  fearful  to 
contemplate.  I  believe  it  will  end  in  terrible  defeat ;  at  the  best, 
what  will  the  cost  of  success  be?  " 

Beatrice  lifted  up  her  head  and  smiled. 

"  You  mean  well,  Gilbert,"  she  replied,  "  and  reason  tells 
me  that  it  would  be  well  for  me  to  marry  you,  and  go  to  Verville 
and  live  and  die  there.  But  you  have  uttered  a  word,  '  defeat,' 
which  appeals  to  something  besides  reason.  Gilbert,  you  come 
in  an  evil  hour.  Do  you  know,  can  you  even  imagine,  what  my 
feelings-  were  when  Mr.  Brown  told  me  the  treachery  that  had 
been  accomplished  ?  As  I  heard  him  I  realised  all  that  betrayed 
sovereigns,  conquered  generals,  and  fallen  statesmen  feel.  Agony 
of  that  kind  I  had  never  known  before,  and  never  can  know 
again.  I  cannot  marry  ;  I  have  but  one  thought,  one  hope,  and 
one  feeling  now.     Pity  me,  forgive  me,  and  forget  me  I" 

"  Good-bye,  Beatrice  ! "  said  Gilbert,  rising. 

"  Good-bye,"  she  replied,  and  rose  too. 

They  looked  at  each  other  with  the  lingering  earnestness  of 
last  looks.     Then  suddenly  Beatrice's  heart  melted  within  her. 

"  Stay  ! — stay  !  Gilbert ! "  she  cried.  "  Stay  and  forgive  me  ! 
I  was  mad — mad  with  bitterness  and  sorrow  !  " 

She  could  scarcely  speak  for  sobs  and  tears,  for  the  reaction 
from  her  new  to  her  former  self  was  violent  and  strong.  Gilbert 
made  her  sit  down,  and  sat  down  by  her  side,  and  waited  till  she 
was  calm  again.     She  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  Gilbert,"  she  said  rather  sadly,  "  I  wish  I  had  let  you  go. 
I  am  selfish  to  bind  your  lot  to  mine." 

"Selfish!    Why  so?" 

"  Because  I  am  not  what  I  was,  and  never  shall  be  again. 
I  felt  it  a  while  back  all  the  time  I  was  repelling  you.  It  was 
not  merely  Carnoosie  that  made  me  say  no,  Gilbert ;  it  was  the 
feeling  that  it  would  be  ungenerous  and  selfish  to  give  you  such 
a  wife  as  I  shall  be  now,  Gilbert.  I  come  to  you  not  merely 
portionless,  but  penniless.  I  may  silently  give  up  Carnoosie. 
Nothing  will  make  me  submit  to  the  ignominious  compromise 
which  was  signed  in  my  name.  The  place  is  either  mine,  or  it 
is  not." 

"  Did  I  ask  you  for  a  portion  !" 

"  No,  but  you  are  not  a  rich  man,  and  it  may  be  hard  upon 

you  to  take  so  poor  a  wife.     If  that  were  even  all ;  but,  Gilbert, 

do  not  look  the  denial  you  do  not  feel.     I  know  that  my  health 

1*3  ruined  and  gone,  and  I  almost  think,  Gilbert,  that  you  know 

19 


434  BEATRICE. 

it,  and  that  if  you  marry  me  it  is  to  secure  me  a  peaceful  and 
easy  death  with  you." 

The  hand  that  still  clasped  hers  trembled  ;  in  vain  the  modi 
cal  man  tried  to  smile  and  laugh  her  fears  away,  the  lover  shared 
them  too  deeply  for  his  face  not  to  betray  him. 

"  As  you  love  me  tell  me  the  truth,  the  whole  truth,"  earnest- 
ly said  Beatrice  ;  "it  may  do  much  to  reconcile  me  to  ray  in- 
evitable destiny." 

"  Beatrice,  I  cannot  and  will  not  deny  that  your  health  has 
undergone  a  severe  shock.  Grod  knows  if  it  will  ever  be  again 
what  it  was  once  ;  but  time  and  care  will  do  much  ;  all  that  my 
skill  or  that  of  others  can  achieve  shall  be  called  in  to  save  you, 
and  surely  not  in  vain." 

"  Poor  Gilbert !  what  a  wife  !"  she  sighed.  "  If  I  did  not 
know  how  truly  you  loved  me,  and  if  the  world  were  not  what 
it  is,  I  would  not  marry  you.  I  would  go  and  live,  or  rather  die, 
with  you,  Gilbert." 

He  gave  her  a  look  of  sad  and  silent  reproach. 

"  I  cannot  help  it,"  she  said.  "  All  this  comes  too  late.  Love 
and  marriages  are  only  fit  for  health  and  hope  and  life,  not  for 
disease  and  death  and  a  weary  heart — it  is  too  late  ! " 

"  Beatrice,  it  is  never  too  late  when  the  heart  is  true." 

"  You  should  not  say  so,"  she  replied  a  little  moodily  ;  "  it  is 
good  for  me  to  think  as  I  think.  There  are  things  which  one 
must  not  begin  anew,  and  love  is  one.  It  does  not  do  to  rise 
from  the  grave  to  life,  or  at  least  it  is  too  bitter  to  die  after  that ; 
think  of  it,  and  do  not  tempt  me  into  believing  you,  Gilbert.  Let 
me  think  that  life  is  going  from  me,  and  forgive  me  if  I  cannot 
help  being  selfish.  But  I  confess  it  will  be  a  dreary  sort  of  joy 
to  die  near  you  and  not  alone,  with  strangers  around  me." 

"  You  shall  not  die,"  he  said  bending  over  her  ;  "  you  shall 
not  die.     Beatrice,  believe  me  when  I  say  it." 

But  though  he  said  it,  his  tears  fell  fast  on  her  wasted  face. 
The  dreary  comfort  of  which  Beatrice  had  spoken  entered  her 
heart.  She  forgot  Carnoosie,  and  Mr.  Gervoise,  and  her  wrongs. 
She  only  felt  the  shadow  of  death  softly  stealing  over  her,  and 
true  love  clasping  her  in  its  embrace,  and  she  thought,  though 
she  would  not  pain  him  by  saying  so,  "  Gilbert  will  teach  me 
how  to  die." 

Thus  a  third  time  they  met ;  all  obstacles  were  removed — 
all  barriers  were  broken — there  was  nothing  and  no  one  to  divide 
them  now.  Mrs.  Gervoise  slept  in  her  grave,  and  Mr.  Ger^ 
voise  lorded  it  in  Carnoosie.     Beatrice  was  poor  now — all  but 


BEATEICE.  435 

penniless ;  and  who  that  saw  her  leaning  her  wearied  head  on 
Gilbert's  shoulder,  closing  her  sunken  eyes,  who  would  have  en- 
vied this  man,  still  in  all  the  prime  and  beauty  of  health  and 
manhood,  the  faded  and  sickly  girl?  Truly  no  one.  And  thus 
no  bar,  no  obstacle  came  between  them,  and  from  that  day  for- 
ward they  are  one. 

This  is  their  present ;  what  will  their  future  be  ?  The  weak 
often  outlive  the  strong — ^besides,  what  matter  ?  A  few  days  can 
be  more  blest  than  years.  Happiness  is  not  reckoned  by  its 
duration,  but  by  its  depth  and  sincerity.  Let  these  two  put  what 
is  left  of  life  and  love  in  theirs,  and  none  need  pity  their  lot. 


CHAPTER   LIII. 

Along  the  high  road,  which,  after  passing  through  a  green 
and  fertile  landscape,  becomes  the  main  street  of  Verville,  and 
ends  with  the  pathless  sea,  moved  a  travelling  carriage  on  a  mild 
February  morning.  It  had  not  reached  the  village  yet,  but  went 
slowly  up  the  steep  path. 

It  stopped  on  reaching  a  sort  of  ruined  gateway ;  a  gentle- 
man alighted,  and  he  helped  out  a  pale  sickly-looking  girl  in 
mourning,  who  leaned  on  his  arm  with  a  wearied  and  languid 
air. 

*'  Let  us  go  in  there,"  she  said. 

He  gave  her  a  reproachful  look,  but  yielded  to  her  wish. 
They  stood  in  the  little  cemetery  of  Yerville,  a  narrow  place, 
full  of  hillocks  and  crosses.  She  sat  and  rested  at  the  foot  of  an 
old  stone  cross,  quaintly  carved,  and,  through  the  broken  arches 
of  a  church  which  had  once  stood  on  the  spot  now  consecrated 
to  death,  she  saw  the  receding  sea.  On  heaven  and  earth  there 
was  a  glory  like  that  of  a  holier  world. 

She  clasped  her  hands  and  trembled  from  head  to  foot. 

'•  Oh  !  to  die  !  to  die  ! "  she  thought  with  a  sort  of  passion. 

Love,  patient,  faithful,  much-enduring,  stood  by  her  side 
watching  her  with  sorrowful  earnestness,  and  yet  Beatrice  yearned 
for  the  great  repose,  and  this  desire  was  full  upon  her  now. 
"Wonder  not  that  she  should  feel  it. 

She  had  suffered  much,  and  death,  though  the  working  of  a 
curse,  is  surely  not  a  curse.  It  is  the  coolest  draught  which  the 
children  of  Eve  athirst  for  heaven  can  drink  here  below.  Saints 
have  taken  it  as  the  symbol  of  their  renunciation  to  sin  They 
have  longed  to  die  to  the  flesh,  to  the  world,  to  themselves,  to 
all,  that  they  might  live  to  God.  Oh  !  death,  beautiful  death ! 
thou  for  whom  the  holy  have  pined,  thou  at  whom  martyrs  midst 
the  flames  have  smiled — death,  sweet  as  sleep  to  the  weary,  all 
do  not  turn  from  thee  in  horror.  There  are  still  hearts  that  burn 
and  sigh  because  thou,  the  loved  one,  comest  not  quickly. 


BEATEICE.  437 

"  Oh  !  Beatrice,  what  are  you  thinking  of?"  said  a  fond  and 
reproachful  voice. 

She  smiled,  took  his  arm,  and  let  him  lead  her  down  the  path. 
He  gently  chid  her  as  they  went  along,  and  Beatrice  thought : 

''  Poor  Gilbert !  he  would  not  believe  me  when  I  told  him 
that  my  heart  was  dead.  Poor  Gilbert !  he  might  as  well  have 
married  a  corpse  as  have  married  me.  He  will  soon  be  a  widower, 
and  short  and  dreary  will  have  been  his  wedded  life.  Oh  !  why 
can  I  no  longer  return  this  great  love  I " 

As  she  thought,  Beatrice  could  not  help  speaking. 

'•  Gilbert,"  she  said,  looking  up  in  his  face,  "  it  is  hard  that 
all  your  goodness  to  me  should  meet  with  so  cold  a  return.  But 
you  know  I  am  not  what  I  once  was." 

Gilbert  reddened  even  though  he  smiled.  He  could  not  have 
been  mortal  if  his  heart  had  not  been  stung  by  the  passive  indif- 
ference of  Beatrice's  manner.  Ay,  she  Avas  right  enough.  Never 
was  lover  blessed  with  so  cold  a  bride.  Never  was  a  great  and 
devoted  affection  received  with  such  languid  calmness.  True, 
her  better  self,  her  reason,  her  judgment,  did-  him  justice  ;  and 
true,  Docteur  Gervoise  knew  that  his  wife's  iU-health  was  the 
great  cause  of  all  that  tormented  him.  But,  though  he  was  too 
just  to  feel  any  resentment,  he  was  human,  and  could  not  help 
feeling  pain.  And  pain  it  was,  pain  keen  and  deep,  that  made 
him  redden  as  he  heard  her.  Why  did  she  tell  him  she  was  cold 
and  altered  ?  Did  he  not  see  and  feel  it  ?  There  are  some  wrongs 
it  is  easier  to  bear  than  to  hear  mentioned. 

"  Nonsense,"  he  said,  making  light  both  of  her  remark  and 
of  his  own  sense  of  it,  "you  are  not  cold,  Beatrice ;  besides,  you 
do  not  know  how  fond  you  will  be  of  me  yet.  And  see,  here  we 
are  at  home." 

Before  them  stood  Docteur  Gervoise's  square  brick  house. 
The  garden  was  bare  as  yet,  but  tokens  of  the  coming  spring 
were  upon  it.  Behind,  rose  a  green  slope  covered  with  young 
trees,  and,  though  the  shining  little  river  was  invisible,  the  clack- 
ing wheels  of  mills  betrayed  it  on  its  way.  It  was  a  bright  and 
cheerful  little  picture,  and  Beatrice  smiled  as  she  saw  the  children 
leading  cows,  the  women  in  white  caps,  the  youths  in  blue  blouses, 
going  along.  She  smiled,  but  he  sighed,  for  he  remembered  Car- 
noosie,  and  thought  to  how  poor  and  small  a  nest  he  was  bring- 
ing this  dainty  bird  of  paradise. 

The  garden-gate  was  opened  for  them  by  Babet,  all  smiles 
and  curtseys,  though  some  of  the  smiles  died  away  as  she  saw 


4:38  BEATRICE. 

the  bride's  pale  face.  And  yet  Beatrice  already  looked  better ; 
Gilbert  was  surprised  and  charmed  to  hear  her  say : 

"  I  am  glad  to  be  at  home." 

At  home  !  The  words  sounded  very  sweet,  though  the  voice 
that  uttered  them  was  more  languid  than  cheerful.  But  it  was 
plain,  at  least,  that  Beatrice  was  making  no  comparisons  between 
the  present  and  the  past.  Her  mind  was  otherwise  engaged. 
She  was  remembering  the  changes  Gilbert  had  formerly  asked 
her  to  make,  and  which  to  please  him  she  had  suggested ;  and 
as,  leaning  on  his  arm,  she  went  through  the  lower  rooms,  she 
saw  that  every  thing  was  as  she  had  once  wished  it  to  be — the 
very  piano  had  taken  another  place,  in  obedience  to  her  desires. 
•  She  turned  to  her  husband ;  he  knew  her  meaning,  and  smiled, 
and  clasped  her  in  a  long  embrace  of  that  love,  purer  than  passion, 
which  outlives  health,  beauty,  sorrow,  and  time. 

Beatrice  sat  down.  A  mild  sea-breeze  stirred  the  curtains 
of  the  open  window.  Warm  gleams  of  sun  stole  along  the  pol- 
ished oaken  floor,  the  rooms  looked  pleasant,  and  made  to  live  in. 

"  I  am  very  happy,"  said  Beatrice  ;  and  happy  indeed  did  she 
feel,  her  very  heart  overflowing  with  the  sacredness  of  that  tie 
which  binds  two  lives  in  one,  and  blends  all  that  poetry  and  ro- 
mance hold  of  delightful,  with  the  deep  charm  which  lingers 
around  a  happy  human  home. 

"  I  do  not  know  if  I  shall  be  happy  long,"  she  said,  after  a 
while  ;  "  but  for  the  happiness  which  God  has  given  to  me,  be  it 
brief  or  enduring,  I  shall  ever  be  grateftil." 

••'  Believe  me,  Beatrice,"  replied  her  husband,  "  your  hour 
has  not  come  yet." 

Beatrice  smiled  ;  bat  did  she  believe  him  ? 

"And  now  that  you  are  at  home,"  said  Gilbert,  gaily,  "I 
must  leave  you  and  go  and  speak  to  the  mayor  on  the  business 
he  wrote  to  me  about." 

He  left  her  looking  happy  and  cheerful,  but  sad  at  heart.  He 
believed,  he  hoped,  that  she  would  live — ^but  alas !  should  he 
ever  have  again  that  gay  and  fond  young  Beatrice  who  was 
enough  to  send  any  man's  wisdom  to  the  winds  ? 

For  a  long  time  after  her  husband  had  left,  Beatrice  remained 
sitting  in  a  sort  of  dream.  She  felt  happy,  but  very  languid. 
The  sound  of  the  opening  door  roused  her  at  length.  She  looked, 
and  saw  Babet  nodding  and  smiling  at  her. 

"  Please,  madam,  at  what  hour  shall  we  have  lunch?" 

''  At  the  usual  hour,  Babet." 

"  And  please,  madam,  what  shall  there  be  for  lunch?" 


I 


BEATEICE.  439 

This  was  a  mucTi  more  perplexing  question. 

"  Any  thing  you  please,  Babet." 

Babet  shook  her  head.  This  was  not  market  day ;  there  was 
no  meat  at  the  butcher's,  no  fish  had  come  in  that  morning,  and 
Monsieur,  having  said  they  would  not  arrive  until  next  day,  Babet 
had  relied  upon  that,  and  provided  nothing.  This  was  a  very 
bewildering  state  of  housekeeping  affairs,  and  Beatrice  looked 
alarmed. 

"  Get  something  for  your  master,  Babet,"  she  said. 

"  What  am  I  to  get,  madam?" 

"  Any  thing,  Babet." 

Babet  shook  her  head.  Any  thing  meant  nothing  ;  however^ 
Monsieur  was  not  hard  to  please,  and  she  supposed  that  bread 
and  cheese  would  do. 

"  No,  no,  Babet,"  hurriedly  said  Beatrice,  rising,  "  it  will 
not  do.  Your  master  must  have  something  hot.  I  shall  go  to 
the  kitchen  with  you." 

With  a  sigh  at  the  exertion  she  went.  In  the  kitchen  she 
discovered  eggs,  bacon,  and  potatoes,  and  with  some  surprise  at 
Babet's  silence  concerning  these,  she  gave  her  directions  for  the 
forthcoming  meal. 

••'  And  now  perhaps  madam  will  tell  me  about  the  linen  and 
the  rooms  ?  "  said  Babet. 

"  The  linen  and  the  rooms,  Babet ! " 

"  Yes  ;  I  have  taken  down  all  the  curtains,"  drily  said  Babet. 

Beatrice,  though  annoyed,  would  not  begin  her  reign  by  cen- 
sure, so  she  forbore  to  ask  Babet  why  she  had  taken  so  extraor- 
dinary a  step.  The  truth  was,  Babet  had  been  provoked  into  it 
by  a  quarrel  with  a  neighbour,  whom  she  had  imprudently  called 
in  to  see  the  house  before  her  master  and  the  bride  returned. 
The  quarrel  was  not  a  clear  one,  and  when  it  was  over  Babet 
did  not  know  exactly  what  it  was  about,  nor  yet  what  line  of 
argument  she  had  followed  ;  but  in  the  excitement  of  the  moment 
she  took  down  all  the  curtains,  and  would  have  upset  the  whole 
house  if  the  arrival  of  her  master  and  his  wife  had  not  interrupt- 
ed her.  Thus  it  was  that  housekeeping  and  its  cares  fell  upon 
Beatrice  the  very  moment  she  entered  the  region  of  home.  She 
wanted  Babet  to  do  it  all  as  she  pleased,  but  this  Babet  declined. 
She  would  do  nothing  without  madam's  orders,  and,  with  a 
wearied  sigh,  madam  followed  her  up-stairs  and  yielded. 

There  is,  however,  a  charm,  a  sort  of  subtle  iever,  in  house- 
hold matters,  which  few  women  can  resist.  With  all  her  apathy 
Beatrice  soon  felt  this.     Should  the  white  curtains  be  put  up  in 


MO  BEATEICE; 

the  green  room,  or  not  ?  The  momentous  question  led  to  others 
of  equal  interest. 

"  Babet,"  said  Beatrice,  with  sudden  animation  and  interest, 
"  let  us  go  over  the  whole  house.  I  have  thought  of  some 
changes." 

The  changes  were  excellent,  no  doubt,  but  they  were  sweep- 
ing. Beatrice  liked  certain  pieces  of  furniture  to  be  removed, 
and  Babet,  who  was  strong,  though  short  and  square,  was  eager 
to  remove  them  at  once,  and  please  that  poor  pale  young  wife. 
It  would  amuse  and  do  her  good,  and  what  harm  could  it  do 
Babet  ?  So  a  store-room  was  upset ;  a  large  press  was  shifted 
from  one  place  to  the  other  ;  a  table  was  removed  from  one  corner 
of  the  room  to  another  corner,  and  a  good  deal  of  dust  was  raised, 
which  required  allaying.  When  Babet,  by  dint  of  the  broom 
and  of  a  pail  of  water,  had  done  her  share,  Beatrice  removed  the 
cloth  which  had  been  thrown  over  a  shelf  full  of  apples  during 
the  operation,  and  getting  up  on  a  chair,  began  inspecting  her 
stores  for  many  a  dessert. 

"  And  now  I  shall  go  down  and  see  about  the  omelet,  madam," 
said  Babet. 

"  Do,"  replied  her  mistress. 

So  Babet  went  clattering  down-stairs  with  her  sabots,  and 
Beatrice  remained  counting  the  apples  and  selecting  the  ripest. 

Gilbert  was  much  surprised  when  he  returned  to  learn  from 
Babet  that  his  wife  was  engaged  up-stairs. 

"  I  hope  she  has  not  been  fatiguing  herself,"  he  said  anx- 
iously ;  "  you  should  not  have  helped  her  in  that,  Babet." 

"  Oh  !  I  should  not !  "  rather  scornfully  said  Babet ;  "  why, 
she  was  like  a  ghost  sitting  and  moping  until  I  came,  and  spoke 
to  her  about  lunch.  That  roused  her,  the  curtains  did  the  rest, 
and  now  she  is  as  busy  and  as  happy  as  can  be.  Monsieur 
thinks  that  because  he  is  a  doctor  he  knows  a  good  many  things  ; 
so  he  does,  but  Babet  knows  something  too.  Monsieur  should 
remember  that  Babet  nursed  him  through  the  measles,  and  the 
hooping-cough,  and  chicken-pox,  and  made  him  what  he  is  now," 
added  Babet,  casting  an  admiring  glance  at  Gilbert's  fine  person  ; 
"  and  if  he  will  just  leave  madam  to  Babet,  he  will  see  what  she 
will  make  of  her  before  a  week  is  out.  I'll  engage,"  stoutly  Con- 
tinued Babet,  "  to  make  her  as  fresh  as  a  rose,  ay,  and  as  hand- 
some as  she  was  last  summer." 

Gilbert  smiled  and  sighed,  for  he  had  little  faith  in  Babet's 
power,  and  he  knew  what  it  was  that  ailed  Beatrice.  She  had 
told  him  that  her  heart  was  dead,  and  Gilbert  half-believed  it. 


BEATRICE.  441 

If  the  true  and  fond  affection  of  a  husband  who  had  once  been 
passionately  beloved  could  not  waken  that  torpid  heart,  what 
would  do  it  ?  So  sadly  and  heavily  he  went  up-stairs  to  seek 
her.  The  door  of  the  store-room  stood  ajar — Gilbert  saw  her 
without  entering.  She  still  stood  on  the  chair  counting  and  sur- 
veying the  apples.  Her  dark  dress  fell  down  to  her  feet,  the  sun 
shone  on  her  bare  head  and  on  her  half-averted,  face.  She  was 
still  very  handsome,  though  so  thin  and  worn.  "  But,"  thought 
Gilbert,  with  a  pang,  "  she  cares  as  much  about  me  now  as 
about  the  apples  she  is  counting."  And  he  stood  and  looked  at 
her  somewhat  moodily. 

"  Beatrice,  what  are  you  doing?  "  he  asked  at  length. 

She  turned  round  smiling,  with  an  apple  in  her  hand,  and 
looked  down  at  him  gaily.  Her  eyes  were  bright ;  her  cheeks, 
though  thin,  had  a  warm  and  gentle  glow.  She  looked  almost 
as  handsome  as  ever,  and  what  her  husband  prized  infinitely 
more,  and  saw  at  a  glance,  she  looked  gay,  well,  and  happy, 

"  Will  you  have  it?"  she  said,  holding  up  the  apple  to  him, 
as  if  it  were  a  prize. 

"  Come  down  and  give  it  to  me." 

"  No — having  reached  an  eminence  I  keep  it." 

And  she  still  held  the  apple  up,  tempting  him  with  it.  Oh  ! 
Babet,  you  had  worked  wonders  indeed  •  She  was  again  the 
sweet,  laughing  Beatrice  of  old  days.  She  had  crossed  once 
more  the  gates  that  lead  from  death  to  life.  And  oh  !  life  joy- 
ous, happy  life,  gift  of  a  bounteous  God,  with  the  quick,  warm 
blood  running  in  thy  veins,  and  thy  glad  heart  beating  to  the 
tune  of  health,  and  thy  eyes  smiling  the  happiness  of  that  glad 
heart,  who  that  sees  thee  does  not  bless  thee  and  thy  great 
giver ! 

Many  had  been  Gilbert's  joys  and  triumphs  by  sick-beds, 
many  victories  had  he  won  over  disease  and  death,  but  none  had 
been  so  sweet  as  this  ;  for  he  measured  its  depths  in  a  moment, 
and  from  these  depths  rose  the  vision  of  a  life-long  happiness. 

"  You  look  well,  Beatrice,"  he  said  ;  and  do  what  he  would, 
his  voice  was  not  quite  steady. 

"  Oh !  I  feel  so  well,"  she  said,  jumping  down  from  her  chair 
with  a  quick  and  joyful  step,  "  and  so  altered !  I  do  believe  I 
wanted  to  die  an  hour  ago,  and  now,  Gilbert,  I  should  like  to 
live  for  ever !  " 

Her  eyes  sparkled  with  joy,  and  well  they  might.  She  who 
had  thought  her  heart  so  cold  that  morning  had  found  it  living 
and  warm  before  the  night.  Without  token,  without  warning, 
19* 


44S  BEATRICE. 

the  great  change  had  come  ;  and  that  change  was  going  back  to 
those  sweet  fountain-heads  of  love  and  youth  which  so  rarely  bless 
human  hearts  a  second  time. 

But  however  deeply  he  might  feel,  Gilbert  would  show  noth- 
ing of  it.  He  could  read  gentle  excitement  in  Beatrice's  eyes, 
and  he  would  not  indulge  her  in  a  mood  delightful  but  wasting. 

"  "What  have  you  and  Babet  been  doing?"  he  asked. 

"  Don't  you  see  ?  Cleaning  up,  to  be  sure.  I  like  this  house 
and — oh  !  Gilbert,  I  feel  so  happy ! " 

"  The  wind  is  from  the  west,  and  I  dare  say  it  suits  you." 

"  The  wind,  indeed  ! "  she  said,  a  little  provoked.  "  I  tell 
you  I  am  happy,  and  that  the  happiness  is  running  over." 

He  smiled  silently  at  her  bright  face. 

"  Ah !"  she  could  not  help  saying,  "  I  know  what  brought 
me  out  from  darkness  into  light,  from  sorrow  into  happiness, 
from  bitterness  into  joy.  It  is  you,  Gilbert,  it  is  you !  I  should 
be  dead  if  it  were  not  for  you — dead  in  mind  or  in  body,  and 
perhaps  in  both.  God  help  those  who  in  their  great  trouble  do 
not  find  what  I  have  found." 

"  A  lover — a  husband,  I  mean,"  suggested  Gilbert. 

"  A  friend  ! — a  friend  !  "  cried  Beatrice,  her  tears  flowing  ; 
"  a  friend — God's  greatest  gift  to  man.  Call  him  parent,  brother, 
lover,  or  husband,  there  is  nothing,  Gilbert,  like  a  friend.  And," 
she  added  with  her  brightest  smile,  *'  there  never  was  a  friend 
like  you." 

There  is  no  knowing  what  Gilbert  might  have  answered,  for 
he  was  in  the  mood  to  say  foolish  things,  and  he  had  not  been 
married  many  days  ;  but  Babet  luckily  came  to  the  rescue  of  his 
wisdom  by  bringing  the  tidings  that  luncheon  was  waiting.  Gil- 
bert, who  had  felt  some  uneasiness  about  that  meal,  saw  with 
pleasure  and  surprise  a  goodly  array  of  dishes  on  the  table. 

"  Ah !  you  did  not  expect  that ! "  triumphantly  cried  Bea- 
trice. ''You  knew  you  brought  me  home  to  an  empty  larder, 
and  you  fled  and  left  me  to  get  out  of  the  scrape  as  well  as  I 
could.     You  did  not  expect  that,  did  you  ?  " 

''  How  did  you  manage,  Beatrice?  Tell  me,  that  I  may  ad- 
mire your  housekeeping  genius." 

"  Babet  and  I  did  it." 

"  It  was  madam's  idea,"  put  in  Babet. 

"  And  Babet's  execution,"  replied  her  mistress.  "  Eggs,  milk 
and  potatoes  did  the  rest.  "We  have  acted  like  nature,  given  a 
variety  of  forms  to  one  primeval  dish." 

Whatever  difference  Gilbert  misrht  find  between  nature's  exe- 


BEATEICE.  443 

cution  and  Babet's,  he  was  too  politic  a  monarch  to  displease  that 
loyal  premier  by  confessing  it.  He  pronounced  every  thing  per- 
fect ;  and  Beatrice,  though  she  smiled  now  and  then,  said,  too, 
that  every  thing  was  wonderfully  good.  The  result  of  which  ju- 
dicious conduct  was  that  Babet  informed  her  next  door  neighbour 
that  Monsieur  had  married  an  angel.  The  neighbour,  being  of 
a  carping  disposition,  regretted  that  Madame  Gervoise  was  not 
better-looking. 

"  Better-looking !  "  screamed  Babet.  "  Why,  she  was  lovely 
a  year  ago,  and  she  will  be  lovely  again." 

So  thought  Babet's  master,  as,  after  a  happy  day,  he  sat  by 
his  hearth  looking  at  his  wife's  face,  on  which  played  the  bright 
light  from  the  fire,  whilst  the  rest  of  the  room  was  wrapped  in 
soft  twilight  shadows. 

"  Gilbert,"  suddenly  said  Beatrice,  looking  up,  "  do  you 
know  what  my  darling's  last  words  were  ?  '  Marry  Gilbert,'  she 
said.  And  do  you  know,"  continued  Beatrice,  "  why  I  tell  you 
this — why  I  can  mention  her  name  almost  for  the  first  time  since 
she  died? — ^because  my  heart  is  open,  Gilbert;  because,  after 
weary  years  and  bitter  days,  I  can  say  at  last — I  am  happy  !  " 

And  before  the  week  was  out  Babet's  prophecy  was  fulfilled, 
and  her  mistress  was  fresh  as  a  rose,  and  Babet  triumphantly 
said  to  her  master — 

"See  what  I  made  of  her  ! " 


CHAPTER  LIV. 

The  sunbeam  that  stole  in  through  the  window  of  Docteur 
Gervoise's  parlour  lit  a  pretty  picture.  The  room,  with  its  pol- 
ished floor  and  cool-looking  walls — with  its  open  window  and  the 
green  trees  bending  above  the  shining  river — was  a  pleasant  back- 
ground to  Beatrice  sitting  on  a  low  chair  and  dancing  a  baby  on 
her  knee.  She  laughed,  and  the  child  laughed  too,  and  pulled 
her  dark  curls,  whilst  she  raised  it  in  the  air  and  kissed  one  little 
pink  foot  from  which  its  blue  shoe  had  fallen  ;  and  of  those  two 
merry  faces  Beatrice's  was  rather  the  merrier  one. 

Ah  !  what  a  change  happiness  can  make  in  a  human  life  !  The 
Beatrice  whom  we  see  now  is  not  the  Beatrice  whom  we  knew. 
Mr.  Gervoise's  rebellious  step-daughter  is  a  submissive  wife. 
The  obedience  which  Gilbert  does  not  require  she  yields.  As  he 
feels,  she  feels  ;  as  he  believes  and  worships,  Beatrice  believes 
and  worships  too  ;  but  sometimes  when  they  kneel  side  by  side  in 
the  grey  old  church  of  Verville,  she  forgets  to  pray,  and  looks  at 
his  bending  face,  and  reckons  in  her  full  heart  every  blessing  she 
owes  to  him.  "  You  are  my  better  half,  Gilbert !  "  she  often 
said.  She  said  it  in  jest  and  meant  it  in  earnest,  and  was  not  far 
from  the  truth.  Gilbert  had  faults  to  which  she  was  not  blind. 
He  was  too  cold""and  too  distant  to  the  patients  by  whom  he  lived  ; 
too  reserved  with  men  who  thought  themselves  his  superiors  be- 
cause they  were  rich,  and  whom  he  thought  his  inferiors  because 
they  were  ignorant ;  and  too  much  inclined  to  severity  in  his 
dealings  with  all ;  but  above  all  these  imperfections  his  great  love 
for  his  wife  rose  clear  and  strong.  She  had  tried  him,  not  inten- 
tionally, but  because  they  were  so  different  that  she  could  not 
avoid  doing  so,  and  she  had  never  alienated,  irritated,  or  provoked 
him  for  one  moment.  This  true  love  conquered  her  on  a  point 
which  might  have  been  a  sore  point,  her  scepticism  and  his  reli- 
gious belief.  Gilbert  had  half-smiled,  half-reasoned  his  wife's 
doubts  away,  and  by  the  tenderness  of  a  human  affection  con- 
vinced her  of  the  truth  of  Divine  love. 


BEATRICE.  445 

Narrow  are  the  varieties  of  a  happy  wedded  life.  Retirement 
had  been  Beatrice's  fate  from  childhood,  and  was  her  lot  still. 
There  was  no  society  in  the  little  French  village,  and  it  was  well 
for  her  that  she  was  satisfied  with  her  husband's,  for  she  had  no 
other  until  the  birth  of  her  first  child.  And  yet  she" was  happy, 
deeply  happy — so  happy  that  she  almost  forgot  Carnoosie.  Day 
by  day  the  image  of  her  old  home,  and  its  noble  trees  and  its 
fountains,  receded  into  the  past,  and  threw  a  remoter  shadow 
over  the  present.  But  deep  and  strange  are  the  links  that  bind 
us  to  the  spots  we  once  have  loved.  Her  husband  could  not 
trace  a  sign  of  regret  in  Beatrice,  yet  often  at  night  he  knew  that 
her  slumber  was  broken  by  tears  and  sobs,  'midst  which  she  ut- 
tered the  name  of  her  lost  inheritance.  In  the  magic  world  of 
dreams  she  went  back  to  the  orchard,  and  wandered  once  more 
in  the  solemn  gloom  of  the  avenue. 

And  thus  two  happy  years  had  passed  away,  when  Gilbert 
entered  the  room  where  we  have  found  Beatrice,  and,  stooping 
behind  her  low  chair,  began  playing  at  hide  and  seek  with  Char- 
lie.    Suddenly  he  rose  and  moved  toward  the  door. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  asked  Beatrice. 

"  Nowhere,"  replied  Gilbert,  as  he  came  back. 

M.  Lenoir,  the  village  schoolmaster,  had  passed  on  instead 
of  opening  the  garden  gate.  This  man  was  also  the  village  gref- 
fier^  and  Beatrice  knew  that  her  husband  had  business  with  him, 
but  what  that  business  was  he  had  not  told  her.  Beatrice  had 
never  questioned  him.  If  he  would  not  teU,  it  was  right  he 
should  not,  and  her  generous  and  trusting  temper  forbade  her  to 
press  him  on  this  point.  She  remained  thoughtful  awhile,  then 
compelled  herself  to  think  of  something  else  by  saying : 

"  Gilbert,  Charlie  must  not  be  a  doctor,  you  know." 

"  Of  course  not.  His  father's  profession  is  not  good  enough 
for  baby." 

"  That  is  not  it,  Gilbert,  but  it  is  such  a  hard  life  you  have, 
and  for  what  ?  It  is  lucky  we  have  Verville  to  look  to.  If  we 
have  no  more  children  it  will  do  for  Charlie  to  begin  farming 
with  on  a  small  scale,  he  can  extend  it  afterward.  Now,  do  not 
look  at  me  so,  I  never  meant  that  you  were  to  give  it  him.  No, 
Gilbert,  we  will  retire  to  the  chateau  when  we  grow  old.  I  shall 
like  the  dark  old  rooms  and  the  orchard  ;  there  is  a  sense  of  peace 
about  large  houses  which  small  dwellings  never  give  me.  In 
these  silence  cannot  abide  as  in  the  former.  And  do  you  know 
that  I  am  sure  Verville  is  more  valuable  than  you  think  ?  The 
old  furniture  is  very  fine  ;  but  that  is  a  trifle,  the  ground  belong- 


4:46  BEATRICE. 

ing  to  it  is  certainly  the  best  about  here.  "Well,  what  is  it?*'  she 
added,  breaking  off  as  Gilbert  looked  wistfully  at  her. 

He  sighed  deeply,  and,  drawing  his  chair  to  hers,  he  said 
gravely : 

"  You  are  not  unhappy  here,  Beatrice?" 

"  Unhappy  !  "  she  laughed. 

"It  is  a  small  house,  but  you  could  live  on  in  it  and  not  feel 
miserable  ?  " 

"  Gilbert,  you  pain  me  !  " 

"  Well,  then,  Beatrice,  you  must  know  the  truth ;  this  house 
is  the  only  one  that  we  must  ever  look  to  !  " 

"  And  Verville?"  said  Beatrice,  looking  at  him. 

"  I  have  sold  it." 

"To  whom?" 

An  expression  of  great  pain  passed  Gilbert's  face. 

"  To  my  father,"  he  said  at  length. 

"  Poor  Gilbert !  "  thought  Beatrice,  "  he  too  has  been  plun- 
dered." 

There  was  a  pause,  after  which  Beatrice  said  gently  : 

"  Gilbert,  how  came  you  to  do  this  ?  " 

"  I  had  no  choice.  This  house  was  my  father's  as  Verville 
was  my  mother's.  I  bought  it,  and  paid  for  it  by  instalments. 
We  married  before  it  was  all  paid,  and  it  so  happened  that  my 
father  was  in  want  of  ready  money,  which  I  could  not  give  him. 
So  we  compromised  the  matter.  I  sold  him  Vervdlle,  and  he 
cancelled  my  debt." 

"  That  was  your  business  with  M.  Lenoir?" 

"  It,  was." 

"  And  what  did  you  sell  Yerville  for?" 

"  Twenty  thousand  francs." 

"  Poor  Gilbert ! "  thought  Beatrice,  but  her  heart  swelled 
within  her  as  she  looked  at  the  baby  in  her  husband's  arms. 

"  Beatrice,  I  could  not  help  myself,"  said  Gilbert,  detecting 
the  look. 

"  No,  Gilbert,  I  am  sure  you  could  not.  But  since  your 
father  had  the  life  interest  in  Verville,  what  did  he  want  it  for  ?  '* 

"  To  sell  it,  I  believe." 

"Sold!  it  is  sold?" 

"  Yes,  I  understand  that  the  people  to  whom  it  is  let  have 
bought  it." 

"  For  how  much?" 

"  Do  not  ask  me,  Beatrice." 

"  I  need  not,  Gilbert,"  she  replied,  her  full  heart  breaking 


BEATEICE.  447 

forth  in  speech.  "It  was  bought  from  you  for  profit,  say  cent, 
per  cent.  Oh !  Gilbert,  I  guess  more  than  you  tell  me.  It  is 
marrying  me  that  undid  you,  and  made  your  father  your  enemy. 
He  found  you  in  his  power,  and  he  used  that  power  without 
pity,  all  out  of  hatred  to  me.  God  forgive  him,  Gilbert !  Has 
he  not  Carnoosie  ?  Gould  he  not  leave  you  Verville  for  yourself 
and  your  children  ?  But  he  knew  that  if  there  could  be  a  bitter 
thought  to  Beatrice  Gordon's  pride  it  was  that  of  bringing  ruin 
to  the  man  she  loved.  Well,  Gilbert,  I  confess  it,  he  has  con- 
quered me  at  last.  I  could  bear  losing  my  own,  I  could  bear 
coming  to  you  penniless,  but  I  cannot  bear  to  think  that  I  have 
helped  to  despoil  you  !  " 

Sobs  would  not  let  her  say  more ;  she  hid  her  face  in  her 
hands  in  an  agony  of  poignant  grief.  Gently  did  Gilbert  remove 
one  hand,  then  the  other  ;  reproachfully  did  he  look  at  her  face 
bathed  in  tears,  the  first  tears  of  grief  she  had  shed  since  their 
married  life. 

"  Beatrice,"  he  said  rather  sadly,  "  do  not  grudge  my  father's 
son  that  he  has  borne  something  for  your  sake." 

At  once  Beatrice's  tears  ceased,  and  trying  to  smile,  she  re- 
joined gaily : 

"  If  it  were  not  that  I  will  not  spoil  you,  and  that  no  prudent 
wife  ought  to  spoil  her  husband,  I  would  say  that  I  stand  cor- 
rected ;  but  having  your  moral  welfare  at  heart,  I  do  not  say  it." 

"  Of  course  not,"  replied  Gilbert,  laughing. 

Seeing  him  laugh  the  baby  laughed  too,  and  thus  ended  in 
sunshine  the  first  dark  hour.  But  there  was  a  cloud  on  the  hori- 
zon, a  speck  as  yet,  but  a  cloud  of  coming  trouble  and  grief. 
Gilbert  rose  and  left  his  wife,  and  though  she  saw  him  go  with  a 
smiling  face,  there  was  heavy  sadness  in  her  heart. 

"  I  have  been  blind,"  she  thought,  as  the  glamour,  which 
happiness  had  thrown  over  her  life  vanished,  and  she  saw 
things,  not  as  they  had  seemed,  but  as  they  were  in  sober 
reality. 

Gilbert  was  poor  ;  he  had  told  her  once,  "I  cannot  afibrd  to 
marry  a  poor  girl,"  and  she  had  come  to  him  penniless,  and  Gil- 
bert had  sacrificed  every  dear  pursuit,  every  pleasant  task,  which 
had  made  liis  sober  youth  content.  Since  his  marriage  Gilbert's 
books  had  remained  closed,  his  chemical  apparatus  untouched. 
He  had  given  himself  up,  body  and  mind,  time,  energy,  and  will, 
to  the  making  of  money.  Truly  Beatrice'^  love  had  cost  him 
very  dear  indeed. 

"If  he  had  married  a  rich  woman,"  thought  Beatrice,  " or 


4:48  BEATRICE. 

at  least  a  woman  who  would  have  brought  him  a  competency, 
he  need  not  have  been  a  mere  doctor,  at  every  sick  peasant's 
call ;  he  would  have  made  himself  a  name  that  would  have  been 
known  beyond  Yerville.  Poor  Gilbert !  you  gave  up  every  thing 
for  me,  even  your  dearest  and  best  part,  and  I  selfishly  accepted 
the  sacrifice,  and  never  suspected  its  depth,  nor  measured  its 
generosity." 

Beatrice's  tears  fell  on  the  despoiled  baby's  face,  but  in  vain 
might  those  tears  flow.  The  once  rich  mistress  of  Carnoosie  was 
very  poor  now.  So  poor,  that  she  could  not  even  earn  her  liv- 
ing, but  must  remain  a  burden  on  her  husband's  love  for  ever. 

"  He  thinks  me  proud,"  thought  Beatrice,  with  a  swelling 
heart,  "  but  it  is  not  that,  it  is  that  I  love  him,  and  that  I  have 
dragged  him  down.  Oh  !  why  did  he  come  to  me  in  Great  Or- 
mond  Street,  or  why  did  I  say  'yes?'  I  ought  to  have  known 
better ;  but  I  thought  of  myself,  and  not  of  him." 

To  these  bitter  reflections  was  added  another.  Mr.  Gervoise 
was  now  his  elder  son's  enemy.  It  was  plain  he  had  resented 
their  marriage,  and  had  shown  his  sense  of  it  by  the  vindictive 
spirit  which  made  him  press  the  debt  he  knew  Gilbert  could  not 
repay. 

"  He  hates  me,"  thought  Beatrice,  "  and  he  will  persecute 
me  through  his  own  son  rather  than  give  me  rest.  I  thought  the 
weary  battle  over,  and  it  goes  on  stiU.  Only  now  I  stand  de- 
fenceless and  unarmed,  and  every  blow  tells." 

She  went  out  into  the  garden  and  sang  Charlie  to  sleep. 
"  These  are  your  inheritance,  my  darling,"  she  thought,  looking 
at  the  fruit-trees ;  this  is  your  forest  of  Carnoosie.  Well,  I 
was  rich  once,  and  I  envied  a  beggar's  lot — let  it  be — let  it  be  !  " 

As  she  walked  up  and  down,  Beatrice  became  aware  of  a 
timid  shrinking  female  figure  in  black  peeping  at  her  through  the 
wooden  railing  that  fenced  in  the  garden  from  the  road.  Bea- 
trice looked  at  her  in  surprise ;  the  long  black  robe,  the  close 
bonnet  and  thick  veil,  had  an  air  of  disguise,  strange  in  this  quiet 
village,  where  none  thought  of  concealment.  Suddenly  the  gar- 
den gate  opened,  and  the  stranger  came  toward  her.  She  walked 
slowly  with  a  heavy  step  that  told  of  coming  age.  When  she 
stood  near  Beatrice  she  raised  her  veil,  and  showed  her  a  pale 
worn  face  and  sunken  eyes. 

"  You  do  not  know  me,  Miss  Gordon,"  she  said  in  English ; 
"  I  am  Rosy." 

Rosy,  this  was* Rosy,  once  fresh  as  the  flower  whose  name 
she  bore  !  She  saw  doubt  and  amazement  in  B  eatrice's  face,  and 


BEATEICE.  449 

she  burst  into  tears.     Beatrice  took  her  by  the  hand  and  led  her 
into  the  long  sitting-room  on  the  ground-floor. 

Antony's  wife  sank  down  on  the  nearest  chair ;  her  tears 
flowed  a  while,  then  ceased.  It  was  an  hysterical  feeling  that 
had  prompted  them,  the  source  of  grief  lay  far  deeper.  Beatrice 
sat  down  by  her  and  did  not  question  ;  perhaps  she  had  no  need 
to  do  so.  Rosy  too  was  silent.  Drearily  she  looked  around  her. 
It  did  not  seem  as  if  external  objects  struck  her  eye.  The  pleasant 
STinlit  room  did  not  cheer  her,  but  she  felt  the  sea-breeze  to 
which  Beatrice  was  accustomed,  and  she  shivered  as  she  looked 
at  the  black  fireplace.  At  once  Beatrice  rang  and  got  Babet  tcT 
light  a  fire. 

As  soon  as  the  logs  began  to  blaze  Rosy  drew  near,  with  the 
chilly  motion  of  one  in  pain  ;  she  looked  at  the  fire  with  a  gaze 
of  dull  enjoyment. 

"  What  will  you  take?"  asked  Beatrice. 

Rosy  looked  up.  The  eagerness  of  desire  passed  over  her 
faded  face. 

"  Have  you  any  brandy?"  she  asked. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Beatrice  doubtfully. 

She  left  the  room  and  soon  returned  with  a  very  small  liqueur 
glass  full  of  brandy,  but  she  brought  no  bottle  with  her.  She 
saw  Rosy's  look  of  disappointment,  and  it  confirmed  her  fears. 
With  a  promptly  outstretched  hand  Rosy  took  the  glass  from  her, 
and  she  drank  its  contents  with  an  avidity  that  boded  no  good. 
Unconsciously  Beatrice's  face  betrayed  her  thoughts. 

"  I  know  what  you  are  thinking  of,"  said  Rosy  with  a  dreary 
smile,  "  but  you  need  not  fear.  Miss  Gordon  ;  they  put  plenty  of 
brandy  in  my  way  ;  they  wanted  me  to  take  it — I  never  did — not 
once  ! "  she  added  with  a  fierceness  of  energy  that  was  very  un- 
like the  gentle  though  petulant  Rosy  of  old  days. 

"  They  have  made  me  cunning,"  she  added  with  a  laugh ; 
"  I  have  run  away  from  them,  when  they  thought  me  safest. 
When  they  find  it  out — it  will  be  too  late." 

"  Are  they  not  in  Carnoosie?" 

"  No,  they  both  went  down  to  Scotland  yesteraay.  As  soon 
as  it  was  night  I  escaped.  I  had  money,  though  they  thought  I 
had  none.  I  have  plenty  of  money  still,  and  when  they  find  out 
I  am  gone,  it  will  be  too  late  to. catch  me." 

"  Oh  !  Rosy,  poor  little  Rosy ! "  said  Beatrice,  taking  her 
hand  and  pressing  it  gently,  "  what  a  life  you  have  led?" 

"■  The  life  of  a  dog  ! "  replied  Rosy  ;  "  and* they  thought  they 
had  broken  my  spirit.     I  thought  so  too  ;  but  I  found  they  had 


450  BEATEICE. 

not  after  all.  Miss  Gordon,"  she  added,  drawing  her  chair  near 
Beatrice's  and  whispering,  "  do  you  know  what  frightened  me 
and  made  me  run  away  ?     They  wanted  me  to  make  my  will." 

"  Well,"  answered  Beatrice,  "  what  about  it?" 

"  You  know  well  enough  what  I  mean,"  said  Antony's  wife  ; 
"  you  know  it,  but  you  will  not  seem  to  know  it.  I  do  not  care 
who  hears  me,"  she  added,  raising  her  voice  and  her  blue  eyes 
flashing,  "  I  tell  you  they  wanted  me  to  make  my  will,  because 
they  wanted  to  get  rid  of  me  and  be  sure  of  Carnoosie.  But  my 
poor  father  had  always  warned  me.  'Do  not  make  your  will, 
Rosy,'  were  his  last  words,  '  or  they  will  kill  you  for  what  you 
have  got.' " 

"  That  is  not  Mr.  Gervoise's  way,"  said  Beatrice  with  much 
bitterness  ;  "he  does  not  kill,  but  he  gets  rid  of  people  all  the 
same." 

"  I  tell  you  they  would  have  killed  me,"  persisted  Rosy, 
"  The  place  is  not  what  it  was  when  you  were  in  it.  Oh  !  how 
I  hate  that  great  dreary  old  Carnoosie,  and  the  fountains,  and 
the  trees  !  how  I  hate  them  all.  Miss  Gordon  ! " 

"  I  am  Gilbert's  wife.  Rosy." 

Rosy  calmed  down,  looked  at  her  and  at  the  baby,  and  said 
after  a  while, 

"  Yes,  I  remember  you  are  married.    Are  you  happy?" 

"  Very  happy." 

"  You  look  like  it,  and  yet  I  cannot  understand  it — ^how  can 
married  people  be  happy  ?  " 

"  And  what  do  you  intend  doing?"  asked  Beatrice  ;  "  do  you 
intend  any  thing  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do  not  mind  telling  you.  My  father's  half-sister  is 
living  in  Switzerland,  and  I  shall  go  and  join  her." 

"  Will  you  be  safe  there  ?" 

"  Oh  !  yes,  quite  safe.  If  I  could  get  a  separation  I  would  ; 
but  there  is  no  chance  of  that — it  is  the  old  story,  you  know,  I 
have  no  proof." 

She  spoke  with  a  dreary  sort  of  ti*anquillity,  the  apathy  of 
much  and  deep  grief,  that  smote  Beatrice's  heart.  What  a  fright- 
ful wreck  of  youth,  beauty,  and  natural  goodness  was  this  !  What 
a  sickening  thing  it  was  to  think  that  one  man  could  thus  destroy, 
blight,  and  ruin  every  thing  around  him.  Rosy  seemed  uncon- 
scious of  Beatrice's  thoughts.  She  was  watching  the  baby  as  it 
wakened. 

"  Give  him  to  me,  please,"  she  said. 

Not  without  reluctance  did  Beatrice  comply  with  the  request. 


BEATEICE.  451 

She  almost  hoped  that  the  child  would  cry  on  seeing  himself  sur- 
rendered to  a  stranger,  but  he  did  not.  He  looked  at  Rosy  with 
large  black  wondering  eyes,  and  a  most  serious  face,  then  sud- 
denly laughed  and  jumped  in  her  arms  with  baby  glee.  Tears 
silent,  but  bitter,  flowed  down  Rosy's  faded  cheeks. 

"  If  I  had  had  a  child,"  she  said,  "  I  might  have  been  happy. 
I  would  have  turned  to  it  in  all  my  troubles,  and  it  would  have 
given  me  comfort.  Oh  !  Miss  Gordon,  why  can  I  not  stay  here 
with  you  and  rest  ?  I  feel  so  weary — so  very  weary.  But  I 
must  not,"  she  added  without  waiting  for  Beatrice's  reply  ;  "  I 
must  go  this  very  day.  They  have  hunted  me  from  my  own 
house,  and  they  would  hunt  me  from  yours.  Besides  it  would 
be  cruel  in  me  to  remain  near  you.  Mr.  Gervoise  would  not  hate 
you  so  much  if  you  had  not  taken  my  part  against  him  ;  and  if 
you  were  to  receive  and  shelter  me  now,  what  would  he  not 
do?" 

"  I  will  not  fear  him,"  said  Beatrice,  with  the  old  rebellious 
spirit. 

'*  Do  not  defy  him,"  impressively  replied  Rosy,  her  voice 
sinking  to  a  whisper.  "  I  came  here  to  see  you  and  to  warn 
you." 

Beatrice  was  silent,  but  she  felt  her  heart  beating  fast.  She 
had  lived  in  great  peace  and  happiness  for  the  last  two  years,  far 
from  the  old  discord  which  had  once  been  familiar  as  her  daily 
bread. 

"  He  hates  you,"  said  Rosy  again. 

"  He  always  did.  Rosy.  He  hated  me  when  I  was  a  child, 
and  before  he  married  my  mother." 

Rosy  nodded,  as  much  as  to  say  of  course,  but  she  added : 

"  He  hates  you,  but  he  hates  Gilbert  ten  times  more." 

Beatrice  felt  as  if  she  had  received  a  sharp,  keen  stab.  She 
clasped  more  closely  to  her  bosom  the  child  Rosy  had  given  back 
to  her. 

"  You  remember  how  you  warned  me  once,"  continued  Rosy  ; 
"  be  now  warned  by  me.  If  you  can  leave  this  place  and  be  out 
of  his  reach,  do  so." 

"  Why,  what  can  he  do  to  us?" 

"  I  do  not  know ;  but  you  know  the  man,  and  ever  since 
Gilbert  married  you  he  hates  him.  I  once  overheard  him  and 
Antony,  when  they  did  not  think  I  was  nigh,  talking  about  Gil- 
bert, and  it  was  plain  they  intended  something  against  him,  for 
they  were  laughing  and  sneering  together  in  their  horrible  way." 

''  What  did  they  say,  Rosy?" 


452  BEATRICE. 

"  I  could  make  out  nothing  save  his  name." 

"Was  that  long  ago?"  asked  Beatrice,  hoping  that  the  cha- 
teau of  Verville  was  the  subject  of  the  conversation. 

"  About  a  fortnight." 

"  Rosy,  try  and  remember  what  they  said." 

But  Rosy  shook  her  head.  She  could  remember  nothing,  or 
rather  she  could  only  repeat  broken  words  and  implied  threats 
with  which  Gilbert's  name  had  been  mixed.  Beatrice's  heart 
sank  within  her.  The  invisible  peril  is  worse  than  that  which 
the  eye  measures  with  a  look,  and  of  which  it  can  at  least  esti- 
mate the  adverse  chances.  What  could  Mr.  Gervoise  do  against 
her  husband  ?  Had  he  not  despoiled  and  plundered  him  of  his 
maternal  inheritance  ?  True,  this  was  a  poor  revenge  for  Mr. 
Gervoise ;  but  if  his  hatred  took  some  keener  and  more  active 
shape  what  would  that  be  ? 

"  Well,"  said  Rosy,  watching  her,  "  what  will  you  do?" 

"  There  is  nothing  to  be  done." 

"  Yes,  there  is.  You  might  go  far,  very  far  away  out  of  his 
reach." 

Beatrice  smiled  and  tried  to  look  brave. 

"  We  surely  need  not  fear  him  so  much,"  she  said. 

"  You  know  him,  and  you  say  that,"  exclaimed  Rosy  ;  "  why, 
what  is  there  that  that  man  cannot  accomplish  ?  Is  it  possible 
you  do  not  see  your  danger  ?  To  me  it  is  as  plain  as  day.  He 
wants  your  ruin,  and  your  ruin  he  will  effect." 

"  My  husband  will  never  leave  Verville." 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Rosy  broke  it  by  saying  "  she 
must  go."  When  Beatrice  attempted  to  detain  her  she  shook 
her  head  and  uttered  a  brief  but  emphatic  denial.  The  carriage 
that  had  brought  her  was  waiting  for  her  at  the  inn,  and  would 
take  her  on  to  the  neighboring  railway  station.  In  two  days  her 
journey  would  be  ended.  Beatrice  renewed  her  entreaties,  but 
faintly ;  there  was  something  in  Rosy's  face  that  froze  back  cor- 
diality, and  repelled  affection  for  ever.  She  had  suffered  too 
much,  and  they  whom  great  sorrows  have  visited  are  like  the 
dead ;  they  stand  alone  on  another  shore  than  ours,  for  ever  be- 
yond the  reach  of  human  love,  tenderness,  and  sympathy.  It 
was  almost  with  a  sense  of  relief  that  Beatrice  bade  her  unbid- 
den guest  good-bye  ;  but,  when  she  reentered  the  house  and  saw 
Rosy's  vacant  chair  standing  by  the  hearth  on  which  still  biu-ned 
the  dying  embers,  her  heart  smote  her  for  the  inhospitable  and 
unkindly  feeling." 

"  Poor  Rosy  !     Poor  little  Rosy !  "  she  thought,  "  the  beggar 


BEATRICE.  453 

in  the  street,  the  starving  wretch  in  his  garret,  have  a  better  lot 
than  hers.     Oh  !  Gilbert !  Gilbert !  how  I  ought  to  love  you  !  " 

But  with  the  thought  of  Gilbert  came  another  inexpressibly 
bitter.  Rosy's  last  words  had  been,  "  Mind  what  I  told  you — 
be  on  your  guard — ^beware  !  "  And  the  sense  of  danger  threat- 
ening thejbeing  she  most  loved  was  to  become  henceforth  a  thorn 
in  Beatrice's  lot.  She  forgot  all  that  she  had  already  cost  him 
in  the  past ;  she  even  thought  little  of  the  trials  and  troubles  of 
the  present ;  it  was  the  future  that  haunted  her  like  a  spectre. 
She  recapitulated  Mr.  Gervoise's  crimes,  and  their  name  seemed 
legion.  To  him  darkly,  unjustly,  perhaps,  she  attributed  the 
loss  of  the  ten  thousand  pounds  which  had  broken  her  father's 
heart.  To  him  she  ascribed  every  evil  feeling — every  misfortune 
of  her  youth.  The  death  of  Mr.  Ray,  that  of  Mr.  Raby,  An- 
tony's unnatural  perversity,  Rosy's  blighted  life,  had  all  one 
source.  Closing  this  long  record  of  woe  came  her  mother's 
deathbed,  which  he  had  hastened ;  Carnoosie,  of  which  he  had 
despoiled  her  ;  and  that  last  iniquity,  which  would  surely  not  be 
the  least :  his  robbery  of  his  eldest  son's  little  estate.  Of  what 
was  not  such  a  man  capable  ?     What  would  he  not  do  yet  ? 

When  Gilbert  came  in  Beatrice  told  him  of  Rosy's  visit,  and 
related  all  that  had  passed.  To  this  recital  she  added  the  com- 
ment of  her  own  fears.  Gilbert  heard  her  in  sad  silence,  and 
did  not  utter  one  word  of  reply. 


CHAPTER  LV. 

Time  had  passed,  and  nothing  had  come  of  Rosy's  warning, 
when  Babet  looked  very  busy  and  anxious  on  a  bright  summer 
morning.  She  went  in  and  out  of  the  house,  declined  answering 
her  enemy  the  neighbour's  inquiries,  and  when  toward  evening 
that  lady  accosted  her  with  a  triumphant  "  Babet,  I  know  all 
about  it,"  Babet,  turning  up  her  nose,  which  was  but  a  short 
one,  replied — 

"  Of  course  you  do,  you  always  know  what  it  is  no  business 
of  yours  to  know." 

With  which  gracious  reply  Babet  reentered  her  master's 
house  and  went  up  to  her  mistress's  room. 

In  that  room,  unhappily  closed  to  the  neighbour's  inquisitive 
eyes,  we  can  follow  Babet.  There  is  a  cradle  in  it,  and  in  that 
cradle,  over  which  Gilbert  is  bending,  there  is  not  one  new  baby, 
but  two.  Two  twin  sisters,  "beautiful  as  the  day,"  proudly 
said  Babet,  "and  as  like  Monsieur  as  two  drops  of  water ;  "  the 
simile  of  two  peas  not  holding  good  in  France. 

"  Gilbert,"  said  Beatrice's  low  voice. 

At  once  he  was  by  her  side. 

"  You  will  be  weighed  down  with  trouble  and  care.  A  wife 
and  three  children  !     Poor  Gilbert !  " 

Poor  Gilbert  smiled,  and  reminded  her  that  He  who  sent 
children  also  sent  the  means  of  providing  for  them. 

"Oh!  it  is  not  of  want  I  am  afraid,"  she  replied;  "but, 
Gilbert,  care  will  be  too  much  for  you.     You  are  so  altered." 

"  Monsieur  has  got  a  little  thin,"  put  in  Babet ;  "  but  he  is 
just  as  handsome  as  ever." 

A  strong  and  rather  a  jealous  admiration  of  Monsieur's  good 
looks  was  one  of  Babet's  characteristics.  Gilbert  laughed,  and 
Beatrice  smiled  languidly,  and  no  more  was  said. 

But  when  Beatrice  recovered,  and  was  up  and  about  again, 
she  was  more  than  ever  impressed  with  the  consciousness  that 
there  was  a  great  and  marked  change  in  Gilbert's  appearance 


BEATEICE.  455 

and  temper.  He  looked  thin  and  worn,  and  though  not  unami- 
able,  or  even  irritable,  he  was  silent,  and,  as  it  seemed  to  Bea- 
trice, gloomy.  She  was  also  struck  with  a  singular  fact :  Gil- 
bert stayed  a  good  deal  within.     What  could  have  happened  ? 

Verville  was  a  small  place — a  real  village — and  Beatrice  led 
a  solitary  and  retired  life,  that  gave  her  few  opportunities  for 
acquiring  information.  The  mayor  was  a  widower,  the  land- 
owners were  either  absentees  or  peasants ;  and  three  of  the 
ladies  whom  Beatrice  might  have  visited,  she  would  not  see  un- 
less in  a  cold  and  formal  fashion  ;  for  one  was  the  mother,  and 
the  other  was  the  aunt  of  Lucie  Joanne,  and  the  third  was  that 
lady  herself,  who  had  recently  returned  to  Verville  a  young  and 
childless  widow. 

True,  Gilbert  had  never  loved  her,  but  he  had  admired  her, 
not  without  cause,  for  she  was  a  very  attractive  and  pleasing 
person  ;  and  if  she  was  not  rich,  she  was  in  easy  circumstances, 
and,  in  a  worldly  point  of  view,  he  could  not  have  done  better 
than  to  have  married  her.  Madame  Landais  seemed  to  wish  for 
Beatrice's  acquaintance,  and  Gilbert,  who  lamented  the  solitude 
in  which  his  wife  lived,  gently  urged  her  to  meet  this  lady's  ad- 
vances in  a  friendly  spirit ;  but  Beatrice's  frank  reply  checked 
him  at  once. 

"  I  cannot,  Gilbert,"  she  said — "  I  cannot ;  for  I  should  get 
mean  and  jealous.  Now,  you  need  not  redden  up  ;  I  should  not 
be  jealous  of  you^  or  fancy  you  are  regretting  her,  but  I  should 
feel  that  it  would  have  been  better  for  you  to  have  married  her ; 
and,  Gilbert,  I  do  not  want  to  feel  that,  though  it  is  true." 

"  Never  say  that  again,"  he  replied,  a  little  passionately. 

"  Very  well,  but  do  not  ask  me  to  see  her." 

He  did  not,  and  thus  it  was  that  Beatrice  lived  in  a  sort  of 
solitude,  and  though  not  unhappy,  knew  nothing  of  what  went 
on  about  her.  But  this  ignorance  could  not  last,  and  Babet, 
though  reluctantly,  became  her  mistress's  informant. 

Gilbert  was  up  in  his  study  ;  he  had  often  been  there  of  late, 
to  Beatrice's  surprise  and  pleasure  ;  she  sat  in  the  room  below, 
sewing  busily  by  the  open  window,  and  rocking  with  her  foot 
the  cradle  where  the  twins  slept — their  blue  eyes  shut,  and  their 
rosy  faces  lying  on  one  pillow-^and  all  the  time  minding  Char- 
lie, who  was  rolling  on  the  floor. 

Babet  went  in  and  out,  muttering  to  herself,  and  sometimes, 
as  Beatrice  heard,  talking  to  the  neighbour  outside. 

The  two  ladies — ^Babet  and  the  neighbour — had  had  a  con- 
flict by  the  river  that  morning.     They  had  both  been  washing. 


4:56  BEATEICE. 

and  one  had  interfered  with  the  other.  The  interference  seemed 
to  last  the  whole  day  ;  it  was  not  over  when  Beatrice  heard  the 
neighbour  saying : 

"  Now,  Babet,  I  did  not  take  the  piece  of  soap.  It  went 
down  the  river,  and,  I  dare  say,  it  is  at  Farmer  Pierre's  by  this." 

"  I  wish  it  were  down  the  mean  fellow's  throat !"  screamed 
Babet. 

The  neighbour  laughed,  and  Babet,  abruptly  opening  a  side 
door,  reentered  her  master's  house.    At  once  Beatrice  called  her. 

"  Babet,"  she  said,  "  what  were  you  saying  about  Farmer 
Pierre?" 

Babet  grew  very  red — saying,  she  was  saying  nothing.  But 
Beatrice  insisted,  and  so  gravely,  that  Babet  pleaded  guilty  to 
wishing  the  missing  piece  of  soap  down  his  throat,  "  by  way  of 
medicine,"  she  explanatorily  added. 

"  Is  he  ill?"  quickly  asked  Beatrice. 

"  He  pretends  that  he  is,"  as  quickly  replied  Babet. 

"And  who  attends  him,  then?"  asked  her  mistress. 

Babet  used  every  art  to  evade  answering  this  question,  but 
Beatrice  was  peremptory,  and  at  length  the  truth,  the  bitter  truth, 
came  out :  A  new  doctor  from  Paris  had  settled  half  a  league 
away ;  a  large  number  of  Gilbert's  patients  had  forsaken  him, 
and  Pierre  had  been  one  of  the  first. 

''  That  will  do,  Babet,"  said  Beatrice,  a  little  faintly ;  "  you 
may  go  now,  thank  you." 

But  when  Babet  had  left  her,  Beatrice  looked  at  Charlie,  still 
playing  on  the  floor,  at  the  twins,  still  sleeping  in  their  cradle, 
and,  remembering  her  husband  up-stairs,  she  felt  that  her  heart 
was  full  to  overflowing.  After  a  while  she  rose  and  softly  went 
up  to  him ;  she  opened  the  door,  but  he  was  engaged  in  some 
experiment,  and  did  not  hear  her.  Beatrice's  heart  smote  her  as 
she  remembered  how  she  had  gone  to  him  in  the  laboratory  at 
Carnoosie  on  the  morning  that  followed  his  arrival.  She  was 
rich  then — rich,  and  gay,  and  generous ;  and  she  remembered 
how  Gilbert  had  kept  aloof  from  her,  and  shunned  and  repelled 
the  wealthy  girl.  And  now  she  was  his  wife,  and  the  three 
children  below  were  her  portion  to  this  over-burdened,  and  sorely- 
tasked,  and  tried  man. 

"  May  I  come  in?"  she  said  softly,  and  almost  humbly. 

"  May  you  come  in?"  he  asked,  turning  round  with  a  smile — 
"what  a  question!" 

She  came  forward,  and  passing  her  arms  around  his  neck,  she 
said,  a  little  passionately : 


BEATRICE.  457 

"  Gilbert — Gilbert,  why  did  you  marry  me?" 

"  Why ! "  he  repeated,  affecting  to  take  this  as  a  literal  ques- 
tion. "  Well,  I  believe  it  was  because  you  had  dark  eyes  and 
dimples.     I  believe,  but  am  not  sure." 

'^  Oh !  Gilbert,  do  not  jest ;  this  is  no  time  for  jesting.  I 
know  what  you  have  been  hiding  from  me  so  long.  What  new 
doctor  is  this  who  is  attending  on  Farmer  Pierre  ?  " 

"  We  cannot  help  that,  Beatrice,"  he  replied,  gently ;  "  and 
we  had  better  endure  what  we  cannot  help." 

'^  Gilbert,  it  is  your  father  who  has  sent  him — it  is  he  who 
wants  to  ruin  you,  and  perhaps  to  drive  you  from  Verville." 

"  Beatrice  you  have  no  right  to  say  that,  nor  I  to  believe  it." 

Beatrice,  looked  at  him  very  earnestly  ;  he  did  believe  it,  and 
she  saw  it. 

"  Well,  Gilbert,"  she  resumed,  after  awhile,  "  let  us  not  be- 
lieve it ;  it  would  be  too  bitter  for  you,  and  for  me  too.  I  would 
rather  not  think,  Gilbert,  that  I  am  the  cause  of  all  your  troubles, 
and  that  it  would  be  better  for  you  that  we  had  never  met." 

He  gently  wiped  away  the  tears  which,  spite  all  her  efforts  to 
restrain  them,  flowed  down  her  cheeks  ;  but  though  his  language 
was  kind  and  tender,  he  did  not  make  light  of  the  cause  of  her 
trouble.     Beatrice  felt  that. 

'^Gilbert,  tell  me  all,"  she  urged;  "tell  me  every  thing; 
how  are  matters  going  on  with  you  ? " 

Gilbert  looked  at  her  wistfully  and  sighed  ;  but  he  yielded  to 
her  wish — he  made  her  sit  down  by  his  side,  and  whilst  the  cool 
and  pleasant  green  of  the  trees  which  hung  over  the  river  gave 
them  its  freshness,  whilst  the  sun  played  through  the  leafy 
branches,  and  the  water  flowed  with  a  gentle  sound,  he  told  her 
a  bitter  story  of  disappointment  and  impending  ruin. 

Shortly  before  the  birth  of  the  twins,  the  new  doctor  had 
come  and  settled  in  the  neighbourhood.  For  no  reason  that 
Gilbert  knew  of,  he  had  taken  the  people  by  storm.  The  feeling 
in  his  favour  had  been  strengthened  by  a  cure  he  had  effected  in 
a  case  which  Docteur  Gilbert  Gervoise  had  pronounced  desperate. 
From  that  time  forward  Gilbert  had  declined,  and  his  opponent 
had  gone  on  rising. 

''  And  now,"  added  Gilbert  with  a  sigh,  "  there  is  no  denying 
it,  Beatrice,  he  is  up  and  I  am  down." 

Thus  sadly  closed  his  narrative. 

"  But  you  will  get  up  again,  Gilbert,"  said  his  wife,  trying  to 
look  cheerful. 

"  Beatrice,  I  must  be  true — I  do  not  expect  it.  Confidence 
20 


4:68  BEATEICE. 

once  withdrawn  is  not  easily  restored ;  and  what  can  I  do  to  get 
patients  back?" 

"  Then,  Gilbert,  what  is  to  be  done?" 

"  Do  you  trust  in  me?"  he  asked. 

"  Entirely." 

"  Then  wait  a  week,  and  I  shall  probably  have  something  to 
tell  you  by  that  time." 

"  And  remember,"  said  Beatrice,  "  that  whatever  it.  may  be, 
I  am  content." 

The  dark  eyes,  for  which  Gilbert  professed  to  have  married 
her,  looked  up  at  him  with  trust  so  perfect  and  devotion  so  com- 
plete, that,  spite  the  weight  of  his  troubles  and  cares — and  how 
heavy  they  were  Beatrice  did  not  know — Gilbert  felt  strangely 
happy.  Lucie  Joanne  would  have  done  her  duty,  but  Beatrice 
did  better  by  far,  she  loved  him  so  truly,  that  with  her  love  and 
duty  were  one.  Never — Gilbert  felt  it  with  infinite  softness — 
never  need  they  be  divided  one  moment  in  her  heart. 

For  a  week  they  did  not  once  renew  this  subject ;  and  yet 
Gilbert  received  letters,  some  from  England,  and  his  wife  saw 
that  his  mood  became  more  grave  every  time  he  opened  and  read 
these  epistles.  But  when  the  week  was  out,  he  requested  her 
one  evening  to  come  and  have  a  walk  on  the  downs.  She  asked 
with  a  wistful  look  if  they  should  take  Charlie,  and  Gilbert  re- 
plied "  No." 

Beatrice  put  on  her  hat,  took  his  arm,  and  they  went  out. 
He  led  her  to  a  spot  which  was  one  of  their  favourite  haunts — 
that  where  they  had  parted  four  years  before.  Now,  as  on  that 
sad  evening,  they  sat  down  on  the  grass,  and  saw  the  broad  sea 
on  one  hand,  on  the  other  the  blue  smoke  rising  from  their  roof, 
deeply  embosomed  in  the  trees  of  the  valley.  For  some  time 
they  were  silent. 

"  Beatrice,"  began  Gilbert  at  length,  and  he  took  her  hand  as 
he  spoke,  and  involuntarily  looked  down  at  the  little  house  below. 

"I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Beatrice  ;  "  we  must  leave 
Verville." 

"  Yes,"  he  replied  with  a  deep  sigh,  "  we  must." 

*'Well,"  she  returned,  spealang  bravely,  "let  us  leave  it, 
Gilbert." 

"  I  could  stay  and  struggle  on,"  resumed  Gilbert,  "  but  the 
end  would  be  defeat,  and,  what  is  worse,  ruin.  I  think  it  best 
therefore  to  go  before  I  am  conquered." 

"  And  you  are  right,  Gilbert." 

"  I  have  tjjought  over  many  plans,  and  I  believe  the  best  is 
to  go  to  London." 


BEATRICE.  459 

Beatrice  looked  her  surprise. 

"  Perhaps  you  think  that  as  a  foreigner  I  shall  not  do  well 
there.  But  I  have  a  chance — I  may  say  a  certainty.  When  I 
was  a  boy  at  school  in  England,  before  you  knew  me,  I  had  a 
friend,  James  Fleming,  a  clever  and  acute  lad,  who  is  now  a 
distinguished  scientific  man.  He  called  upon  me  some  five  years 
ago,  and  spent  a  week  here  with  me  in  Verville.  I  wrote  to  him 
some  short  time  back  to  sound  him  ;  his  reply  came  a  few  days 
ago.  He  wants  an  assistant,  a  man  who  knows  enough  to  help 
him  in  his  labours,  and  who  has  not  too  much  ambition  to  scorn 
the  office.  For  this  assistance  he  ofiTers  me  two  hundred  pounds 
a  year." 

Gilbert  looked  earnestly  at  Beatrice  ;  her  tears  were  flowing. 

"  It  is  not  much,'*  he  began,  ''  and  yet ^" 

"  Oh !  Gilbert,  that  is  not  it,"  she  interrupted ;  ''  but  it 
breaks  my  heart  to  see  how  I  have  dragged  you  down.  For  me 
you  gave  up  your  ambition  and  your  pride  ;  and  now  your  mind, 
your  leisure,  and  your  knowledge  must  go  to  another,  in  order 
that  your  wife  and  your  children  may  not  want.  Gilbert,  if  ever 
you  wished  for  me  much,  surely  you  pay  a  heavy  price  for  me." 

"  Not  too  heavy,"  said  Gilbert,  smiling. 

"  Oh !  how  I  wish  I  were  better,  handsomer  than  I  am ! " 
cried  Beatrice. 

"  Do  not,"  he  interrupted ;  "  I  might  not  care  for  such  a  pat- 
tern of  perfection.     But  what  about  Mr.  Fleming's  offer  ?  " 

"  What  pleases  you,  Gilbert,  shall  please  me  too  ! " 

"  Then  I  may  accept?  " 

"  Assuredly  ;  but  what  will  you.  do  with  our  house  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  I  have  got  a  tenant,"  Gilbert  replied  hurriedly. 

'*  A  tenant !  what  tenant? " 

"  A  tenant  who  will  give  me  fifteen  hundred  francs  a  year." 

"Who  is  it,  Gilbert?" 

It  was  not  without  an  effort  that  Gilbert  replied ;  ' 

"  The  new  doctor." 

His  wife  looked  at  him  in  mute  sorrow. 

"  You  will  let  your  house  to  the  man  who  ruins  you?  " 

"  Why  not?  "  he  sadly  said.  "  He  has  offered  to  take  it  for 
ten  years  at  that  price — a  high  one — and  which  tacitly  includes, 
I  suppose,  what  is  left  of  my  practice.  If  we  leave  Verville, 
what  harm  does  it  do  us  that  he  should  live  in  our  house  ?  " 

"  Oh !  Gilbert,  you  have  the  spirit  of  a  saint  and  a  hero." 

Gilbert  did  not  answer,  but  his  wife  little  knew  the  inexpres- 
sible bitterness  he  felt  in  giving  up  his  cherished  home  to  the 


4:60  BEATRICE. 

rival  by  whom  he  had  been  supplanted.  But  a  man  who  has 
a  wife  and  children  gives  pledges  to  fate ,  and  has  nothing  to  do 
with  superfluous  pride.  Gilbert  would  not  have  stooped  to  mean- 
ness even  for  those  loved  ones,  but  he  could  not  afford  to  discard 
a  good  tenant.  J 

"  And  so  we  must  go,"  sadly  'said  Beatrice,  clasping  her 
hands  around  her  knees,  and  looking  down  at  the  little  nest  be- 
low ;  "  we  must  leave  that  green  and  pleasant  Verville,  where  I 
have  been  so  happy,  Gilbert,  that  Carnoosie  and  the  old  life  both 
seem  like  a  dream.  Let  it  be.  Wherever  we  go  together  I 
shall  be  very  happy  still.  Can  I  forget  that  terrible  evening 
when,  sitting  here,  I  saw  the  sun  sink  in  the  sea  after  you  had 
left  me,  and  I  thought  the  world  ended.  I  mean  for  myself. 
Such  deep,  desperate  darkness  seemed  to  have  settled  over  my 
lot.  After  that — after  that  other  cruel  sorrow,  the  death  of  my 
poor  darling,  what  can  I  not  bear  and  endure,  and  think  little  of? 
Gilbert,  we  shall  live  in  Kensington,  have  a  green  home  again. 
Do  you  remember  how  happy  we  were  there  as  children,  and 
how  kind  you  were  to  me  ?  But  when  were  you  not  kind  ?  Oh  ! 
if  I  have  had  many  bitter  griefs,  there  has  been  one  crowning 
blessing  ever  mixed  with  thepa — and  that  is  you,  Gilbert ! — that 
is  you ! " 

"  Flatterer  !  "  he  said,  smiling. 

"It  is  no  flattery,  Gilbert.  You  have  made  me  very  happy, 
and  if  sorrow  is  good  for  some,  believe  me  when  I  tell  you  that 
too  much  sorrow  is  good  for  none,  and  for  tempers  like  mine  is 
fatal.  Gilbert,"  she  added,  with  something  like  passion,  "  I  was 
going  to  perdition  when  you  came  to  me  in  Great  Ormond 
Street." 

"  Hush  ! "  he  said,  gently. 

"  Gilbert,  I  do  not  exaggerate  ;  but  when  I  remember  what  I 
felt  then,  it  frightens  me." 

'  "  When  do  we  go  ?  "  asked  Gilbert. 

"  When  you  please,''  she  replied,  cheerfully.  "  Shall  we  take 
Babet?" 

"  Of  course  we  shall.     We  must  go  soon,  Beatrice." 

"  Let  us  go  soon,  Gilbert. 

Thus  it  was  decided,  and  thus  the  pleasant  home  in  which  she 
had  spent  the  happiest  years  of  her  life  was  closed  on  Beatrice. 


CHAPTER  LYI. 

In  the  green  home  of  which  Beatrice  had  spoken  to  her  hus 
band  she  was  now  settled  with  him  and  her  children  and  Babet, 
who  had  decKned  remaining  in  Verville.  To  see  the  new  doctor 
in  her  master's  house  was  more  than  Babet  could  bear. 

It  was  a  green  home  indeed,  its  white  front  covered  with 
roses,  its  tiny  square  of  garden  blooming  with  flowers.  In  the 
settling  and  furnishing  of  this  abode  Babet  had  taken  a  keen  in- 
terest, which  Beatrice  tried  to  share,  but  could  not.  Ah !  this 
was  not  coming  home  a  bride  to  the  house  in  Verville,  feeling 
herself  mistress,  and  entering  on  marriage  and  housekeeping  at 
o-nce !  This  was,  alas  !  going  down  in  the  world,  and  feeling 
poor  and  conquered,  and  knowing  that  her  husband,  of  whom  she 
was  so  proud,  was  no  longer  his  own  master,  but  dependent. 
Yet  he  spoke  well  of  Mr.  Fleming,  by  whom  he  had  been  most 
kindly  received  ;  and  his  present  pursuit  was,  if  not  highly  lucra- 
tive, at  least  most  congenial. 

"  I  like  it,  Beatrice,"  he  said  to  her,  as  they  sat  one  evening 
by  their  open  window,  whilst  Babet  and  the  children  were  in 
the  garden  outside,  "  I  like  it  truly,  so  do  not  pity  me." 

"  Do  you  remember  the  laboratory  in  Carnoosie  ?  "  she  asked 
with  a  sigh. 

Gilbert  remembered  it  very  well. 

"  I  wanted  you  to  come  and  have  it,  and  you  were  too  proud. 
Ah  !  Gilbert,  it  might  have  been  better  if  we  remained  there. 
Our  children  would  have  Carnoosie,  and  your  daughters,  sir,  of 
whom  you  are  so  proud,  because  they  have  blue  eyes,  I  suppose, 
would  each  have  had  a  portion.  Ah !  what  a  place  that  Car- 
noosie was  !  The  trees  in  Kensington  Gardens  are  not  finer  than 
those  in  my  avenue.  I  dare  say  Antony  has  cut  them  down  now. 
Gilbert,  do  not  think  I  regret  these  things  for  myself,  it  is  for 
you  I  think.  Why,  you  could  be  a  famous  man,  better  known 
than  Mr.  Fleming,  if  you  had  leisure  and  ease." 


462  BEATRICE. 

'  Gilbert  sighed.  Ay,  he  had  given  years  to  toil  obscure  and 
uncongenial.  Ay,  fortune  was  sweet,  and  ease  and  time  were 
sweeter  still ;  but  for  all  that  he  did  not  repent — he  had  done  his 
duty,  and  he  could  not  regret  it.  In  this  spirit  he  answered  his 
wife. 

"  Tell  me  more  about  Mr.  Fleming,"  she  said.  "  Have  you 
seen  his  wife  ?     What  is  she  like  ?  " 

"  She  will  call  on  you  to-morrow,"  replied  Gilbert,  "  I  sus- 
pect to  ask  us  to  dinner." 

Beatrice  looked  disturbed.  He  saw  it,  and  asked  to  know 
why?  She  smiled  as  she  told  him  the  truth.  She  had  only  an 
old  silk  dress  to  wear.  Gilbert  looked  dismayed :  he  was  very 
short  of  money,  and  a  new  one  could  not  be  bought. 

"  Never  mind,"  gaily  said  his  wife,  "  Babet  and  I  will  settle 
this  and  make  a  new  one  of  it." 

"  Ah  !  how  beautifully  you  were  always  dressed  in  Carnoo- 
sie  !  "  sighed  Gilbert. 

"  Yes,  but  I  found  the  dressmaker's  bills  on  my  majority. 
Gilbert,  I  shudder  to  think  of  the  pounds  which  were  lavished  on 
this  miserable  body." 

"  Miserable  !  Beatrice,  I  like  to  see  women  well  dressed.  It 
is  natural  to  them,  and  it  suits  them,  too.  You  are  very  hand- 
some, of  course,  but " 

"  I  can  be  improved  ;  very  true,  Gilbert,  only  it  is  not  to  be 
just  now." 

She  made  light  of  his  trouble  on  this  head,  yet  in  her  heart 
Beatrice  hoped  that  Mrs.  Fleming  would  make  no  dinner  invita- 
tions. She,  too,  liked  to  be  well  dressed.  She,  too,  thought 
that  a  handsome  silk  robe,  rich  in  texture,  delicate  and  bright  in 
hue,  would  set  off  Beatrice  wonderfully. 

Gilbert  was  not  within  when  a  small  but  styhsh  carriage 
drove  up  to  the  cottage  door  the  next  day.  A  tall,  fair,  and 
rather  faded  lady  in  blue  alighted  and  asked  to  see  Mrs.  Ger- 
voise.  She  found  that  lady  with  her  children  in  the  front  par- 
lour, and  at  once  greeted  her  with  friendly  grace. 

"  Oh  !  Mrs.  Gervoise,"  she  said,  "  I  have  so  longed  to  know 
you  ;  and  what  lovely  children  you  have  !  How  well  they  would 
look  in  blue  !  Are  you  not  very  proud  of  them  ?  These  little 
girls  are  exquisite,  and  so  like  their  father,  and  he  is  such  a  hand- 
some man ! " 

Beatrice  smiled  a  little  proudly,  for  Mrs.  Fleming  looked  as 
if  she  were  going  to  add :  "  And  you  are  such  a  handsome 
woman."     Beatrice's  sedate  manner,  however,  calmed  her  down. 


BEATEICE.  '  463 

Tlie  conversation  became  more  subdued,  and,  after  flowing 
smoothly  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  ended  in  the  invitation  to  din- 
ner, which  Beatrice  accepted.  Upon  which  Mrs.  Fleming  reen- 
tered her  carriage  and  drove  away. 

And  now  the  great  day  had  come,  and  Beatrice  was  dressing, 
and  her  husband  was  superintending  her  toilette  with  evident 
anxiety.  He  watched  Babet  settling  this  curl  or  arranging  this 
flounce,  with  a  Frenchwoman's  innate  taste,  and  his  brow,  which 
had  been  overcast,  gradually  cleared  as  every  touch  showed  him 
an  improved  Beatrice  shining  out  more  and  more  brightly,  like  a 
dawning  sun  rising  above  the  horizon.  At  length  Babet's  task 
was  over,  and  Babet  declared  that  her  mistress  was  beautiful  as 
the  day  ;  and  Babet's  master  said  with  an  admiring  smile — 

"  How  handsome  you  are,  Beatrice  !  " 

"  Madame  has  been  getting  handsomer  and  handsomer  ever 
since  she  married  Monsieur,"  said  Babet ;  "  and  she  has  been 
quite  lovely  since  the  twins  were  born." 

"  A  new  receipt  for  beauty,  that !  "  said  Gilbert. 

"  Well,  I  do  believe  I  am  handsome  !  "  said  Beatrice,  gaily 
glancing  from  the  little  looking-glass  above  her  toilet  to  her  hus- 
band ;  "  and  I  am  glad  of  it,  for  your  sake,  Gilbert.  I  am  glad 
that  Mr.  Fleming  should  see  you,  too,  can  have  a  handsome  wife, 
though  you  are  a  poor  man." 

"  Madame  is  handsomer  than  the  lady  who  called  the  other 
day,"  put  in  Babet ;  "  she  is  a  dozen  years  younger,  to  begin 
with,  and  she  has  much  finer  eyes  and  a  pleasanter  face  too." 

Beatrice  and  her  husband  laughed,  and  as  it  was  time  to  go, 
and  Gilbert  had  been  waiting,  they  went ;  Babet  and  the  twins 
and  Charlie  all  collected  at  the  door  to  see  them  enter  the  fly  and 
drive  away.  Gilbert  still  seemed  impressed  with  his  wife's  good 
looks,  for  he  reverted  to  the  subject. 

"  You  are  very  handsome,"  he  said,  "  and  I  am  sorry  the 
twins  are  not  like  you." 

"  We  are  both  handsome,"  gravely  replied  Beatrice,  "  and 
good  and  virtuous  and  wise,  so  let  us  build  a  little  temple  and 
worship  at  the  shrine  of  our  own  perfections,  and  only  lament 
that  nature,  which  did  so  much  for  us,  forgot  one  important  item 
— to  make  us  rich  ;  for  then  we  should  not  be  going  to  dine  with 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fleming,  and  you  would  not  have  been  vexed  and 
sore  all  last  week  because  your  wife  had  not  a  new  silk  dress, 
and  only  recovered  your  equanimity  an  hour  ago  when  you  saw 
that  her  youth  and  good  looks  were  still  sufficient  to  triumph  over 
the  disadvantage." 


4:64:  BEATEICE. 

"  For  once  you  are  the  wiser  of  the  two,"  frankly  replied 
Gilbert;  "but  I  cannot  help  it,  Beatrice.  I  cannot  forget  that 
you  were  bright  as  a  bird  of  paradise  when  I  first  saw  you  in 
Carnoosie." 

"  And  now  I  suppose  some  of  my  gayest  and  best  feathers 
are  gone.  Never  mind,  Gilbert,  enough  are  left  for  me  to  shine 
still  and  do  you  no  discredit." 

She  spoke  as  if  she  were  in  the  lightest  mood,  but  at  heart 
Beatrice  suffered.  It  was  something  new  in  the  life  of  this  proud 
girl  to  dine  at  the  table  of  a  patron. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fleming  lived  on  the  borders  of  the  great  world. 
Its  confines  they  sometimes  passed,  and  they  made  excursions,  a 
few  of  which  were  daring  raids  into  the  precincts  consecrated  to 
the  mighty  of  the  land  ;  but  as  a  rule  they  kept  between  the  two 
regions,  in  a  sort  of  mild  limbo,  where  the  great  now  and  then 
descended,  and  to  which  the  humble  strenuously  endeavoured  to 
climb.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fleming  were  well  born,  more  than  moder- 
ately rich,  handsome,  clever,  and  thoroughly  well-bred.  They 
were  generally  pronounced  pleasant  people  to  know,  and  most  of 
their  acquaintances  and  friends  found  them  so.  Their  reception 
of  Gilbert  and  his  wife  was  kind  and  civil.  Mrs.  Fleming  seemed 
much  struck  with  Beatrice,  and  even  fascinated ;  and  as  there 
were  no  other  guests,  intercourse  was  unrestrained. 

"  Mr.  Fleming  thinks  so  highly  of  Mr.  Gervoise,"  she  said 
confidentially  to  Beatrice,  when  they  were  alone  in  the  drawing- 
room,  "  I  have  so  often  longed  to  know  his  French  friend." 

Beatrice  smiled  a  proud,  calm  smile.  No  praise  of  Gilbert 
sounded  excessive  in  her  ear. 

"  And  how  well  he  speaks  English  !  "  continued  Mrs.  Flem- 
ing ;  "  but  of  course  you  taught  him,"  she  added,  with  a  signifi- 
cant smile. 

"  No,  but  I  dare  say  I  improved  him,"  replied  Beatrice. 
"  When  we  met  a  few  years  back,  he  certainly  did  not  speak  the 
language  well." 

"  He  speaks  it  beautifully  now,  with  so  much  taste  and  re- 
finement ;  but  no  wonder,  if  you  were  his  teacher." 

She  looked  very  graciously  at  Beatrice,  and  her  whole  man- 
ner implied  that  she  was  conscious  of  being  gracious.  Beatrice 
smiled  a  little  haughtily  perhaps,  and  looked  somewhat  above  such 
graciousness.  Mrs.  Fleming  did  not  feel  this,  but  she  felt,  and 
was  surprised  to  feel,  that  Beatrice  was  very  unlike  the  wife  of  a 
man  who  for  two  hundred  a  year  had  become  her  husband's  as- 
sistant.    Beatrice  had  never  been  in  what  is  called  the  world,  but 


BEATEICE.  465 

she  had  been  rich,  she  had  lived  in  a  large  and  stately  home 
which  made  Mrs.  Fleming's  London  house  look  poor  and  mean 
by  comparison.  She  had  been  accustomed  to  wealth  and  its 
habits  and  luxuries,  and  to  the  sort  of  easy  indifference  it  gives. 
Unconsciously,  and  though  Mrs.  Fleming's  feminine  eye  detected 
that  her  silk  dress  had  seen  some  wear,  and  that  she  had  not  one 
ornament  of  real  value  on  her  whole  person,  Beatrice  looked  a 
rich  woman  from  head  to  foot.  And  Mrs.  Fleming  felt  per- 
plexed, and  could  not  help  trying  to  find  out  how  this  came  to 
pass.  That  it  was  a  mere  gift  of  nature  she  was  far  too  keen  to 
believe.  No,  there  was  something  more  than  nature  gives  in 
Beatrice's  easy  and  languid  grace,  a  grace  which  could  start  up 
into  imperiousness  and  vivacity,  and  which  neither  awkwardness 
nor  bashfulness  could  subdue.  So  she  began  talking  of  Verville, 
and  gently  pumping  about  the  society,  the  old  noblesse  which  no 
doubt  abounded  thereabout. 

"  Oh  !  no,"  candidly  replied  Beatrice,  "  they  are  all  peasants, 
rich  or  poor,  but  peasants  still." 

Mrs.  Fleming  then  shot  a  random  arrow. 

"  I  suppose  the  country  is  lovely  though,"  she  said  ;  "  Iheara 
Mr.  Gervoise  talking  of  such  fine  timber." 

"  Oh  !  he  meant  Carnoosie,"  replied  Beatrice  ;  "  there  is  no 
fine  timber  about  Verville." 

Mrs.  Fleming  was  too  well-bred  to  inquire  what  Carnoosie 
was  V  but,  indeed,  she  had  no  need.  She  had  heard  Beatrice's 
story,  and  the  name  of  Carnoosie  and  the  fact  that  this  estate  and 
mansion,  which  she  had  visited  some  time  before,  when  Mr.  Ger- 
voise and  Antony  were  away,  belonged  to  a  lady  bearing  the  same 
name  as  Beatrice,  told  her  all  she  could  wish  to  know.  So  this 
handsome  woman  in  the  half-faded  silk  was  the  dispossessed  mis- 
tress of  the  fine  old  place  she  had  raved  about.  No  wonder  she 
was  so  easy  and  cool,  and  sat  on  Mrs.  Fleming's  blue  satin  furni- 
ture, and  looked  at  Mrs.  Fleming's  ormolu  with  such  perfect  self- 
possession.  What  was  all  this  little  London  splendour  to  one 
who  had  been  reared  in  noble  old  rooms  so  vast  that  shadows 
slept  in  them  ;  who  had  called  half  a  forest  her  own,  and  walked 
in  an  avenue  fit  for  a  royal  park  ?  Mrs.  Fleming  reddened,  bit 
her  lip,  and  was  silent  for  a  few  minutes.  She  would  not  have 
been  envious  of  the  mistress  of  Carnoosie  had  they  met  years 
ago,  but  it  annoyed  and  offended  her  that  the  poor  and  clever 
man's  wife  should  ever  have  been  above  her  in  position  or  in 
wealth  ;  moreover,  it  destroyed  all  her  plans.  Mrs.  Fleming  was 
both  imperious  and  kind ;  she  liked  feminine  protegees  in  her 
20* 


4:66  BEATRICE. 

train,  for  she  was  too  handsome,  and  thought  herself  too  young 
for  male  specimens  of  the  tribe  ;  young,  timid,  amiable  and  clever 
women,  poor  of  course,  were  those  she  preferred ;  she  did  not 
object  to  their  being  prett}',  indeed  she  liked  them  to  be  so,  con- 
sidering them  in  the  light  of  so  much  elegant  and  moving  furni- 
ture, which,  like  the  blue  satin,  set  her  off,  and  did  credit  to  her 
taste. 

But  the  post  of  protegee  is  an  arduous  one,  and  it  was  often 
vacant.  It  had  been  vacant  a  whole  month  when  Mrs.  Fleming 
called  upon  Beatrice.  No  sooner  did  she  see  this  handsome 
young  thing,  who  happened  just  then  to  be  standing  with  a  twin 
on  either  arm,  than  Mrs.  Fleming  discovered  she  was  the  very 
person  she  wanted.  In  a  moment  she  dressed  the  twins  in  blue 
from  head  to  foot,  and  took  out  their  mother  for  drives  in  Rotten 
Row.  And  let  us  do  justice  to  Mrs.  Fleming.  She  felt  a  gen- 
erous pleasure  in  shedding  happiness  on  the  poor  ;  she  liked  to 
help  the  struggling,  and  to  bestow  glimpses  of  gaiety,  and  concerts 
and  balls  and  drives,  on  such  as  often  pine  in  vain  for  these  bless- 
ings. Now  all  these  nice  little  plans  were  completely  upset 
when  Mrs.  Fleming  learned  that  Beatrice  had  been  the  mistress 
of  Carnoosie.  It  was  impossible  to  patronize  this  fallen  princess, 
and  out  of  the  question  to  dazzle  her.  As  for  bringing  her  out, 
it  was  not  to  be  thought  of.  The  disappointment  was  almost 
more  than  Mrs.  Fleming  could  bear,  and  it  required  all  her  civility 
to  keep  her  ill-temper  under.  Luckily  the  gentlemen  came  in, 
and  the  conversation  grew  general.  At  eleven  the  fly  called  for 
Docteur  Gervoise  and  his  wife,  and  they  took  their  leave  and 
drove  home. 

Gilbert  seemed  in  very  good  spirits. 

"  Mr.  Fleming  is  smitten  with  you,  Beatrice,"  he  said  gaily. 

"Is  he?"  replied  his  wife;  "  well,  then,  I  can  inform  you 
that  Mrs.  Fleming  admires  you  ;  so  you  see  what  charming  peo- 
ple we  are." 

But  Beatrice  had  her  own  thoughts.  Mr.  Fleming  was  a  cool 
and  haughty  man,  and  Mrs.  Fleming's  adieu  had  not  by  any 
means  been  so  kind  as  her  welcome.  Beatrice  resolved  to  keep 
out  of  that  lady's  way,  and  hoped  with  an  inward  sigh  that 
Mr.  Fleming  would  never  discover  how  much  her  husband  was 
beyond  him.  We  may  as  well  say  that  Beatrice  took  the  latter 
fact  for  granted  and  indisputable,  without  having  any  precise 
reason  for  coming  to  this  conclusion.  For  how  could  she  know 
that  Gilbert  was  Mr.  Fleming's  superior? 

Her  husband  did  not  share  her  fears.  His  temper,  though 
grave,  was  not  despondent. 


BEATEICE.  467 

"  Fleming  and  I  get  on  beautifully,"  he  said  to  his  wife 
when  they  had  reached  home ;  "  and  I  really  think  we  shall 
be  very  happy  here,  Beatrice." 

He  was  bending  over  the  cradle  where  the  twins  were  sleep- 
ing, and  Beatrice  answered  Avith  a  smile : 

"  I  think,  Gilbert,  that  you  will  be  happy  wherever  these 
young  ladies  are." 


*-^jd&. 


CHAPTER  LVII. 

Whether  the  twins  had  any  thing  to  do  with  it  or  not,  calm 
happiness  certainly  came  once  more  near  Gilbert  and  his  wife. 
She  saw  that  the  life  he  led  now  suited  him,  for  he  was  so 
fond  a  lover  of  science  that  he  could  even  court  this  coy  lady  for 
a  friend  and  be  happy  in  the  task  ;  and  seeing  him  pleased,  she, 
too,  was  content.  The  children  throve  wonderfully,  and  Babet 
expressed  herself  satisfied.  She  had  got  rid  of  her  neighbour, 
and  seemed  to  think  this  a  compensation  for  every  other  evil  of 
her  lot.  So  time  passed,  and  Beatrice  sank  once  more  into  sweet 
and  calm  peace. 

She  was  sitting  alone  one  evening,  waiting  for  Gilbert,  and 
thinking.  Beatrice  could  not  help  questioning  her  wisdom  in 
keeping  so  much  aloof  as  she  had  done  from  Mrs.  Fleming. 

"  It  is  all  your  pride,  Beatrice,"  she  said  reprovingly.  "  Your 
husband  works  for  her  husband,  but  you  were  too  proud  to  let 
that  great  lady  be  friendly  to  you.  It  was  not  pleasant,  but  then 
it  might  have  been  useful  to  him — ^you  should  have  thought  of 
that." 

She  put  down  her  work  for  a  while,  and  when  she  took  it  up 
again,  Beatrice  had  resolved  to  call  on  Mrs.  Fleming  the  next 
day.  As  she  came  to  this  resolution  the  garden  gate  opened, 
and  she  recognized  her  husband's  step.  She  ran  and  opened  to 
him,  for  Babet  went  to  bed  early,  and  they  entered  the  parlour 
together.  Beatrice  resumed  her  seat,  and  Gilbert  sat  down  near 
her,  and  laid  his  arm  on  the  back  of  her  chair. 

He  did  not  speak  at  once.  ^ 

"  Where  are  the  children?"  he  asked  at  length. 

"  Up-stairs  sleeping." 

"  And  what  are  you  doing  for  them,  Beatrice?" 

"  Did  you  think  this  was  meant  for  Charlie's  foot?"  she  re- 
plied, showing  him  one  of  his  own  stockings. 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her  cheek. 


BEATEICE.  469 

A  presentiment  of  the  truth  flashed  across  Beatrice.  She  put 
down  her  work  and  looked  up  in  his  face. 

"  Tell  me  all,  Gilbert,"  she  said.    "  Tell  me  aU,  I  can  bear  it." 

He  looked  down  at  her  wistfully,  but  with  infinite  tender- 
ness. He  never  loved  her  more  than  in  these  hours  of  trial  and 
sorrow. 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know  you  are  fond  of  me,"  she  said,  her  bright 
eyes  flashing.  "  And  so  you  would  rather  not  grieve  me  ;  but, 
Gilbert,  I  must  know  it,  so  tell  it  quickly." 

"  Fleming  and  I  have  parted,"  he  replied. 

"  You  have  quarrelled." 

"  We  have — or  at  least  differed." 

"  About  what !  " 

"  I  was  right  and  he  was  wrong  in  an  induction,  and  he 
could  not  bear  it ;  that  is  all.  For  some  time  I  guessed  this 
was  coming,  but  I  would  not  tell  you  so,  Beatrice  :  sufficient  to 
the  day  is  the  evil  thereof." 

"  Well,  it  is  a  pity,"  said  Beatrice,  after  a  pause.  "  But  we 
must  bear  it ;  and  we  will — shall  we  not,  Gilbert  ?  " 

"  Of  course,"  he  replied,  a  little  impatiently  ;  "  and  of  course, 
too,  I  shall  find  something  else.  The  present  time  alone  troubles 
me." 

And  as  he  thought  of  his  wife  and  his  three  children,  Gilbert 
could  not  repress  a  sigh.  Beatrice  rose,  went  to  a  bureau,  and 
came  back  with  a  thin  book,  which  she  put  triumphantly  into 
her  husband's  hands. 

"  Well,  what  is  that?"  he  asked. 

"  Babet's  account  at  the  savings  bank,  sir.  Babet  has  got 
fifty-three  pounds  and  sixpence,  exclusive  of  interest,  in  the  Ken- 
sington Savings  Bank,  and  the  money  is  yours — not  hers." 

Gilbert  reddened. 

"Beatrice,  how  did  you  do  that?"  he  asked. 

Beatrice  took  up  the  stocking  and  showed  it  him. 

"  By  this,  sir,  and  by  every  thing  like  it ;  in  plain  speech — 
by  thrift.  I  learned  the  lesson  in  my  childhood,  and -it  has  come 
back  to  me  now.  Besides,  from  the  first  I  mistrusted  that  fair 
and  haughty  Mr.  Fleming.  Neither  that  man  nor  his  wife 
could  like  us,  Gilbert." 

"Why  so?" 

"  You  are  more  clever  than  Mr.  Fleming,  and  I  have  been 
rich  and  cannot  be  patronized  by  Mrs.  Fleming.  And  though 
we  have  been  married  some  years,  and  have  three  children,  we 
are  still  in  love,  Gilbert,  which  Mr.  and  Airs.  Fleming  have  long 


4Y0  BEATEICE. 

given  up.  I  felt  she  did  not  like  to  see  you  so  attentive  to  me, 
when  her  husband  snaps  her  up,  civilly  of  course,  on  every  oc- 
casion. And  who  knows,  Gilbert,  I  may  show  that  I  am  both 
fond  and  proud  of  my  husband,  more  than  a  gentleman  whose 
wife  is  moderately  fond  of,  and  not  at  all  proud  of  him,  may 
like.  Besides,  remember  our  crowning  offence.  They  who  are 
rich  are  childless,  and  we  who  are  poor  have  actually  indulged 
in  the  luxury  of  twins  !  " 

"  What  a  good  wife  you  are,  Beatrice  !  "  said  Gilbert,  laying 
his  hand  on  her  shoulder.  "  You  first  take  a  weight  oiF  my 
mind  by  saving  that  money  for  this  great  necessity ;  and  then 
you  put  a  smiling  face  on  your  own  trouble  to  lighten  mine." 

Beatrice  did  not  answer  at  once. 

"  I  believe,"  she  said  at  length,  "  that  you  took  me  first  as 
men  take  a  luxury ;  then  afterwards  as  a  duty " 

"  No,"  he  interrupted. 

"  And  now,"  she  continued,  "  you  find  out  my  real  value." 

"  Which  is  much  greater  than  I  thought,"  replied  Gilbert ; 
"  but  indeed,  Beatrice,  what  sort  of  a  wife  is  she  who  is  not  of 
more  value  after  than  before  marriage  ?  " 

His  hand  caressingly  smoothed  back  the  curls  from  her  flush- 
ed cheek.     Beatrice  laughed,  but  tears  stood  in  her  eyes. 

"  Poor  Gilbert  I "  she  said,  "  I  try  to  put  a  good  face  upon 
it,  and  so  do  you ;  but  a  wife  and  three  children  are  a  heavy 
burden." 

"  To  be  sure." 

"  Oh  !  Gilbert,  it  is  the  children  especially,"  continued  Bea- 
trice, hiding  her  face  on  his  shoulder.  "  We  could  bear  much, 
but  we  could  not  see  them  suffer." 

"  Nor  shall  they  !  "  said  Gilbert,  a  little  proudly. 

"  Wh^t  do  you  intend  doing?"  she  asked,  after  awhile. 

"  Any  thing,  Beatrice,  by  which  a  man  can  turn  an  honest 
penny.     I  will  have  no  mean  paltry  pride  about  me." 

"  I  shall  work  too,"  she  said. 

"  You ! " 

"  Why  not?     Is  it  a  disgrace  that  I  should  work?" 

"  No,  but  I  remember  Carnoosie." 

"  But  you  did  not  take  me  from  Carnoosie,  Gilbert ;  why,  I 
was  penniless  when  you  married  me.  If  ever  man  proved  dis- 
interested love,  you  did  ;  for  Babet  will  tell  you  that  I  was  not 
merely  poor  but  plain ;  and  if  I  am  at  all  pleasant  to  look  at, 
the  merit  lies  with  you,  in  Babet's  creed." 

"  If  Babet  had  seen  you  as  I  saw  you  in  Carnoosie,  she 
would  have  been  dazzled." 


BEATEICE.  471 

"  As  you  were  !  "  demurely  said  his  wife. 

Gilbert  smiled,  then  he  sighed.  If  was  very  pretty  and 
sweet  to  talk  so,  but  the  cares  of  the  morrow  were  still  before 
him,  marring  the  sweetness  of  the  present. 

"  What  are  your  plans?"  asked  Beatrice. 

"  Fleming  had  a  Scotch  friend,  a  Mr.  Balfour,  who  once 
pretty  broadly  hinted  to  me  that  if  ever  I  needed  any  one  to 
help  me  in  life  he  was  willing  and  able  to  be  that  person.  I 
confess  to  you  that  I  rely  on  this  Mr.  Balfour,  who  looks  as  if 
he  would  keep  his  word.     I  shall  call  on  him  to-morrow." 

"  What  sort  of  a  man  is  he?"  asked  Beatrice. 

"  A  grave,  silent,  cautious  man  of  fifty." 

"  And  you  have  no  idea  of  the  shape  his  good-will  is  likely 
to  take." 

"  None." 

"  Well,  we  will  hope,  as  you  say." 

Sweet  is  hope,  and  needful,  too,  to  the  struggling.  Mr.  Bal- 
four had  told  Gilbert  that  he  was  to  be  found  in  the  morning. 
So  early  the  next  morning  Gilbert  set  out.  As  he  was  leaving 
the  cottage  Beatrice  called  him  back  ;  she  had  seen  a  speck  of 
dust  on  his  coat,  and  she  removed  it  carefully. 

"  Am  I  all  right  now?"  he  asked,  smiling. 

"  Oh  !  yes,  all  right  indeed,"  she  sighed  ;  for  though  Gilbert 
was  still  very  handsome,  there  was  a  deep  line  of  care  on  his 
broad  forehead,  once  so  open  and  so  calm. 

"  Well,  then,  give  me  a  kiss  for  good  luck,  and  let  me  go." 

She  raised  her  face  to  his,  then  Charlie  came  clamorously  ; 
then  Babet  appeared  with  the  twins,  who  had  just  wakened,  and 
looked  all  rosy  still  with  sleep.  And  Gilbert  kissed  them  all, 
the  mother,  the  children,  and  the  faithful  servant,  and  he  went 
forth  to  seek  the  labour  without  which  that  little  home  of  love 
would  be  shattered  and  broken.  He  went  forth  not  without 
emotion ;  the  stakes  were  heavy,  and  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life  he  faced  an  uncertain  future. 

Beatrice  was  restless  and  anxious  whilst  her  husband  was 
away.  The  whole  morning  she  and  Gilbert  had  talked  Mr.  Bal- 
four over,  and  speculated  on  every  one  of  that  gentleman's  pecu- 
liarities. He  was  cautious,  therefore  Beatrice  concluded  that  he 
was  sure.  He  was  a  silent  man,  hence  one  could  rely  on  his 
promise.  He  was  a  cold  man,  all  the  more  certain,  therefore, 
was  the  hold  which  Gilbert  must  have  taken  on  his  liking.  Gil- 
bert laughed  at  all  her  conclusions,  and  would  not  confess  that  he 
shared  her  hopes,  and  that  he  too  built  a  fair  edifice  on  the  foun- 


472  *  BEATRICE. 

dation  of  Mr.  Balfour's  good-will.  Restless  and  anxious,  there- 
fore, was  she  whilst  Gilbert  was  away ;  every  now  and  then 
looking  for  him  out  of  the  window  down  the  street,  regardless 
of  the  astonishment  she  created  by  this  breach  of  English  de- 
corum. At  length  she  saw  him  turning  the  corner.  She  rose 
swiftly,  and  went  and  opened  the  door  herself.  She  did  not 
speak,  but  looked  eagerly  in  his  face. 

"  My  good  luck  is  deferred,"  he  said  cheerfully.  "  Mr.  Bal- 
four left  town  yesterday." 

<' For  long?" 

"He  is  gone  to  the  East." 

To  the  East !  Alas  !  what  can  be  expected  from  a  man  who 
is  gone  to  the  East? 

Beatrice  said  nothing,  but  silently  followed  her  husband  into 
the  parlour. 

"  We  must  not  be  cast  down,  my  dear,"  he  said  gently. 

"  Oh  !  no,"  she  replied,  trying  to  be  gay  and  cheerful,  "  we 
must  not  indeed." 

But  it  is  probable  that  they  were  both  somewhat  cast  down, 
nevertheless,  for  though  they  again  attempted  to  discuss  plans 
for  their  doubtful  future,  they  did  so  coldly  and  languidly.  The 
sweet  flavour  of  hope  had  evaporated  from  all  their  schemes. 

Bitter  was  the  story  of  Gilbert's  trials  for  the  next  two 
months.  He  tried  every  thing,  and  every  effort  brought  its 
hopes  and  disappointments.  Beatrice,  too,  though  she  did  not 
tell  him  so,  had  her  failures.  She  tried  what  her  mother  had 
tried  before  her,  teaching  ;  and  less  successful  than  Mrs.  Gordon 
had  been,  she  did  not  get  even  the  encouragement  of  temporary 
success.  At  length  one  morning,  and  when  attempt  itself  seemed 
hopeless,  she  glanced  over  the  advertisement  sheet  of  the  Times, 
and  saw  the  following  paragraph  : — 

"  Wanted,  a  lady  to  teach  three  yotong  children  (hoys)  daily, 
from  twelve  to  three.  She  must  he  a  first-rate  musician  and  a 
good  Latin  scholar." 

"  And  I  am  both,"  thought  Beatrice,  with  sparkling  eyes. 

" Do  you  see  any  thing,  Gilbert?"  she  asked. 

"  No,"  he  replied,  with  a  despondent  and  wearied  sigh ; 
"  nothing  but  situations  wanted— there  is  nothing  for  me  here.' 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  he  looked  so  careworn  that 
Beatrice's  heart  ached ;  but  she  did  not  dare  to  speak ;  if  any 
thing  could  make  Gilbert  lose  that  gentleness  which  was  one  of 
his  traits  in  domestic  life,  it  was  an  allusion  to  his  anxieties. 


BEATRICE.  473 

"When  these  were  touched  upon,  he  became  irritable  and  sharp. 
So  Beatrice  had  learned  to  hold  her  peace  and  pity  him  silently. 

"  You  are  going  out/'  she  said,  seeing  him  rise  and  take  his 
hat. 

"  What  should  I  do  at  home?  "  was  his  short  answer. 

And  he  went,  as  was  his  daily  habit,  to  seek  for  impossible 
chances,  and  weary  himself  with  fruitless  exertions  ;  and  he  did 
not  ask  his  wife  to  kiss  him  and  wish  him  good  luck,  and  there 
was  no  family  gathering  at  the  door  before  his  going  this  time. 

"  Poor  Gilbert ! "  thought  Beatrice.  She  looked  again  at 
the  advertisement  in  the  Times,  and  taking  down  the  name  and 
address  it  mentioned,  she  put  on  her  bonnet  and  cloak  and  went 
out  at  once. 

The  lady  who  wanted  the  first-rate  musician  and  a  good 
Latin  scholar  lived  in  Hammersmith.  Beatrice  soon  reached 
the  house.  It  stood  in  the  centre  of  a  terrace,  and  was  fronted 
by  a  good-sized  garden.  Beatrice  rang  the  garden  bell.  The 
house  door  opened,  a  footman  came  out,  walked  up  the  gravel 
path,  and  stood  by  the  gate,  looking  through  the  iron  bars  at 
Beatrice  outside. 

"  I  come  to  answer  an  advertisement  in  the  Times  "  she  said, 
feeling  compelled  to  declare  her  errand. 

.The  footman,  who  had  probably  been  taking  his  luncheon, 
stared  at  her,  picking  his  teeth. 

"  There's  been  such  a  lot  of  governesses,"  he  said,  with 
another  broad  stare. 

"  Is  the  lady  at  home?"  asked  Beatrice. 

"  No— she's  out." 

"  Then  I  shall  wait  for  her." 

The  footman  stared  again,  but  opened  the  door  and  let  her 
in.  He  showed  her  into  a  cold,  vacant  room  on  tljs  ground 
floor,  and  left  her  there.  Beatrice  had  not  been  sitting  long, 
when  the  door  opened  and  a  tall  lady  in  deep  mourning  entered 
and  sat  down  opposite  her.  A  few  minutes  later  a  young  girl, 
timid  and  blushing,  appeared ;  then  another,  and  another  again. 
They  had  all  come  on  the  same  errand,  and  they  soon  entered 
into  a  general  conversation,  which  Beatrice,  less  accustomed  than 
they  were  to  this  life,  found  both  sad  and  instructive.  Poor 
things,  how  loud  and  how  bitter  were  their  laments,  what  a  pic- 
ture they  drew  of  situations,  and  mothers,  and  pupils  ! 

At  length  a  carriage  drove  up  to  the  gate.  There  was  a  rush 
of  children  along  the  garden,  up  the  steps,  and  a  rustling  of  silk 
in  the  hall ;  then  the  door  of  the  room  where  Beatrice  and  her 


474  BEATRICE. 

companions  were  waiting  opened,  and  a  pleasant-looking  woman 
glanced  in  upon  them. 

"  I  am  so  sorry  you  have  been  waiting,"  she  said  ;  "  and  in 
this  cold  place,  too.     There  is  a  fire  in  the  next  room." 

So  therp  was,  but  the  footman  had  been  reading  his  paper 
there.  Beatrice  was  first.  She  accompanied  the  lady  up-stairs, 
and  there  her  examination  took  place.  It  was  minute  and  pro- 
lix. Every  thing  was  discussed,  from  the  birth  of  the  lady's  last 
child  to  Beatrice's  method  of  teaching  Latin. 

"  Mr.  Green  is  very  particular,"  said  Mrs.  Green,  explan- 
atorily ;  "  but  I  believe  that  when  I  tell  him  you  undertake 
Tacitus,  he  will  be  satisfied." 

Beatrice  hoped  so  too,  and  they  came  to  terms.  The  lady 
was  a  very  pleasant  lady,  but  she  could  drive  a  hard  bargain. 
She  wanted  three  hours  a  day,  first-rate  music  and  good  Latin, 
all  for  fifteen  shillings  a  week. 

"  That  is  very  little,"  urged  Beatrice. 

"•  Yes,  but  you  live  so  near,"  quickly  urged  Mrs.  Green. 

The  argument  was  unanswerable,  especially  as  Beatrice 
longed  for  the  fifteen  shillings.  Mrs.  Green  promised  to  let  her 
have  an  answer  soon,  and  on  this  agreement  they  parted. 

"  Three  pounds  a  month,"  thought  Beatrice,  as  she  walked 
home;  "thirty-six  pounds  a  year,  and  sixty  pounds  from  the 
rent  of  the  house  in  Verville  ;  I  wonder  if,  taking  matters  at  the 
worst,  we  could  live  upon  that  ?  " 

It  was  not  impossible,  but  what  a  hard  life  was  that !  What 
a  mere  existence  !  how  unlike  the  gentle  and  happy  days  of  Ver- 
ville !  Gilbert  came  home  late,  as  usual ;  he  came  home  gloomy 
and  dissatisfied  too.  He  put  away  Charlie,  who  wanted  to  kiss 
him,  and  had  not  a  look  for  the  twins.  His  wife  gazed  at  him 
in.  wistful  silence.  Ah  !  what  a  good  thing  for  man  was  a  little 
ease,  when  its  absence  could  so  change  one  who  was  best  among 
the  good ! 

They  sat  down  to  dinner  without  speaking.  The  meal  was 
nearly  over  when  Babet  brought  in  a  note  which  a  footman  had 
left  for  madame.  Beatrice  opened  it  with  a  trembling  hand.  It 
contained  Mrs.  Green's  compliments,  and  the  hope  that  Mrs. 
Gervoise  would  be  able  to  begin  her  teaching  next  Monday. 

"  From  whom  is  that  letter?"  asked  Gilbert. 

She  went  round  to  him,  and  said  coaxingly : 

"  Now  you  must  not  be  cross,  but  I  cannot  help  being 
learned,  can  I?" 

'•  What  is  it? "  persisted  Gilbert,  rather  uneasy. 


BEATEICE.  4:Y5 

"  Why,  a  Mrs.  Green,  of  Hammersmith,  having  heard  of 
my  classical  acquirements,  has  lured  me  into  teaching  her  three 
boys  Latin.     Here  is  her  letter." 

She  handed  him  the  note.  He  read  it  and  returned  it  in 
silence. 

"Well,  you  are  not  vexed,  are  you?"  she  said  a  little  anx- 
iously. 

"  No,  not  vexed,"  he  answered  sadly ;  "  but  I  did  not  ex- 
pect this  when  I  married  you," 

"  Gilbert,  do  not  grudge  me  that  I  can  do  something.  Have 
I  not  been  living  on  you  all  these  years  ?  Is  it  such  a  hardship 
to  work?  Besides,  it  so  happens  that  this  is  woman's  work 
completely.  Mrs.  Green  told  me  that  she  would  have  none  but 
a  woman  to  teach  her  boys,  and  that  woman  must  be  married. 
So  you  see,  sir,  you  would  never  have  had  a  chance  of  that 
occupation." 

Gilbert  felt  that  she  was  right,  and  that  he  was  WTong,  but 
for  all  that  his  pride  smarted.  He  had  married  Beatrice  think- 
ing to  give  her  a  happy,  peaceful  life  of  ease  and  love,  and  now 
he  was  compelled  to  live  in  idleness,  whilst  she  went  out  to  work, 
and  earn  fifteen  shillings  a  week. 

But  joyously  Beatrice  went  forth  when  the  time  came. 
Pleasant  to  her  was  the  task  of  teaching,  and  pleasant,  too,  she 
found  it  to  earn  money  and  spare  what  still  remained — she  shud- 
dered sometimes  to  think  how  little  it  was— of  their  store.  She 
felt  well  and  strong  ;  the  children,  too,  throve  under  Babet's  care, 
and  she  would  have  been  content  and  hopeful  but  for  Gilbert. 
He  looked  so  pale,  so  worn,  so  haggard !  She  long  kept  her 
anxiety  to  herself,  but  Babet  having  broached  the  subject  one 
afternoon,  Beatrice  spoke  freely. 

"  Monsieur  does  not  look  well,"  said  Babet,  solemnly.  "  I  did 
not  like  to  mention  it  to  Madame,  but  he  does  not  look  well." 

"  You  do  not  think  him  ill,  do  you,  Babet? "  anxiously  asked 
Beatrice. 

"I  do  not  think  him  well, "  rejoined  Babet ;  "he  is  sallow, 
and  he  used  to  be  fresh  as  a  rose ;  his  eyes  are  dull  and 
sunken,  and  I  need  not  tell  Madame  how  bright  they  were  ;  then 
as  to  his  figure,  I  am  sure  that  if  one  were  to  measure  him  round 
the  waist  one  would  find  that  he  has  lost  two  inches  at  least." 

This  diagnosis,  which  would  have  made  Beatrice  smile  at 
another  time,  now  filled  her  with  trouble  and  grief. 

"  He  is  thin,  Babet,"  she  said,  "  and  worn,  and  out  of  health. 
He  doe  3  not  sleep  well,  and  he  eats— " 


4:76  BEATRICE. 

"  Like  a  bird,"  said  Babet,  "  and  formerly  he  used  to  eat  like 
a  wolf.  My  opinion,"  added  this  Job's  comforter,  "  is  that  he  is 
wasting  a^vay." 

"How  dare  you  tell  me  that?"  cried  her  mistress,  turning 
upon  her  with  flashing  eyes,  and  then  bursting  into  passionate 
tears,  she  threw  herself  on  the  sofa  in  an  agony  of  grief. 

Before  Babet  could  utter  a  word  of  explanation  or  comfort, 
the  parlour  door  opened,  and  Gilbert,  whom  Charlie  had  let  in, 
entered  the  room. 

"Beatrice,  what  is  the  matter?"  he  cried,  and  in  a  second 
he  was  by  her.  "What  has  happened?  The  children — "  he 
looked  round  with  an  alarmed  glance  for  the  twins. 

"  They  are  all  right,"  said  Babet,  "  and  so  is  Madame  ;  but, 
like  a  fool,  I  have  frightened  her  about  Monsieur." 
.    "About  me,  Babet?" 

Beatrice  looked  up  and  tried  to  smile. 

"  We  have  been  frightening  ourselves  about  you,"  she  said. 
"  You  look  so  worn,  so  thin,  so  wearied,  Gilbert." 

"  Nonsense,  I  feel  quite  well,  and  very  hungry  too  ;  so  please, 
Babet,  let  us  have  some  dinner.  And  so  that  foolish  Babet  has 
been  alarming  you?"  he  said,  when  Babet  was  gone. 

"  Gilbert,  she  only  gave  my  thoughts  words,  and  I  found  that 
I  could  not  bear  to  hear  them  spoken.  You  are  sadly  altered  of 
late,  and  the  mere  thought  that  any  thing  could  happen  to  you, 
that  you  are  liable  to  illness  like  another,  is  too  much  for  me."  , 

"  In  short,  Beatrice,  I  am  mortal." 

"  Yes,  that  is  it,"  she  said  sadly.  "  I  cannot  bear  you  to  be, 
as  you  say,  mortal  ?  " 

"  Well,  we  will  not  think  of  that  just  now,"  he  replied  gaily. 
"  I  bring  news." 

"  Do  you,  Gilbert?"  she  replied,  sitting  up,  and  trying  to  re- 
gain her  lost  composure. 

"Yes,  and  good  news,  too  ;  so  be  prepared." 

"  I  am  quite  prepared,"  she  said  calmly. 

"  Well,  I  met  Mr.  Balfour  a  week  ago." 

"  He  is  come  back  ! "  she  cried. 

"  He  is ;  and  I  would  not  tell  you,  lest  I  should  give  you 
hopes  which  might  never  be  fulfilled.  He  got  ill  in  the  East, 
and  came  back  to  England  out  of  health.  He  was  full  of  his 
ailments,  and  talked  about  them  at  length.  Of  course  he  was  un- 
der medical  advice,  and  I  should  not  have  spoken,  but  I  happened 
to  make  a  suggestion,  and  this  suggestion  he  acted  upon,  and 
most  fortunately  it  proved  successful.     So  when  I  called  upon 


BEATRICE.  4YT 

him  to-day,  thinking  to  get  him  to  assist  me  in  my  endeavours, 
what  do  you  think  he  proposed  to  me  ?  " 

"  To  attend  upon  him?  " 

"  To  become  his  physician  at  a  fixed  salary.  "We  have  not 
mentioned  terms  yet,  but  I  understand  they  will  be  handsome. 
What  do  you  say  to  that  ?  " 

"  I  say,  Gilbert,  that  if  you  can  have  rest  and  peace  of  mind, 
and  become  yourself  once  more,  I  shall  be  so  happy,  that  I  shall 
want  for  nothing  else." 

"  And  you  will  give  up  teaching  Latin?  " 

"  Mrs.  Green  talks  of  going  out  of  town — I  shall  wait  till 
then.     Wliere  does  Mr.  Balfour  live?" 

"  Oh  !  he  travels — that  is  the  only  drawback." 

"  Never  mind  me,"  quickly  said  Beatrice ;  "  you  will  like 
travelling,  and  it  will  do  you  good ;  never  mind  me." 

Her  ready  and  generous  acquiescence  took  a  weight  off  her 
husband's  mind.  He  knew  how  passionately  she  loved  him,  and 
he  could  appreciate  the  disinterestedness  of  this  speedy  consent. 
She  loved  him  so  well  that  his  pleasure  and  convenience  and 
comfort  went  far  and  ever  beyond  her  own.  What  a  warm, 
fond,  and  true  heart  she  had,  what  a  gentle  and  yet  noble  Bea- 
trice was  this,  when  he  compared  her  with  the  girlish  Beatrice 
who  was,  however,  so  charming  in  her  way.  After  awhile  she 
asked  if  Mr.  Balfour  took  long  journeys. 

"  No ;  he  told  me  himself  that  he  could  never  remain  long 
away  from  London.  He  leaves  it  suddenly,  and  returns  sud- 
denly.    I  shall  come  in  upon  you  when  you  least  expect  me." 

Dinner  put  an  end  to  the  conversation,  and  when  the  meal 
was  over,  Gilbert  asked  for  the  children,  who  dined  early  and 
alone.  Presently  the  parlour  door  opened,  and  Charlie  came  in, 
and  behind  him  came  the  twins  in  Babet's  arms,  their  two  rosy 
faces  shining  on  either  side  of  Babet's  withered  and  brown  visage. 
Their  father  took  them  and  put  one  on  each  knee.  If  there  was 
a  weak  spot  in  his  heart,  it  was  for  these,  his  blue-eyed  little 
daughters,  both  as  like  him  as  they  were  like  each  other.  Ten- 
derly he  looked  down  at  them,  thinking  how  he  would  save  and 
provide  for  them,  and  smooth  every  thing  away  from  their  path  ; 
and  whilst  he  thought  thus,  Charlie,  standing  between  his  father's 
legs,  looked  gravely  from  him  to  his  sisters,  and  Beatrice,  sitting 
a  little  behind  her  husband,  looked  down  at  the  three  children 
over  his  shoulder,  and  thinking  of  the  new,  calm  future  opening 
before  them,  felt  very  happy. 

"  God  bless  Mr.  Balfour,  Gilbert !  "  she  said  softly. 


478  BEATRICE. 

He  looked  round  at  her  and  smiled. 

"  And  why  not  God  bless  me  ?  "  he  asked. 

Ah !  if  blessings  from  heaven  came  down  at  the  prayer  of  a 
fond  heart,  what  husband  and  father  would  have  been  more  blest 
than  Mr.  Gervoise's  eldest  son  ? 


CHAPTER  LVIII. 

Babet  was  in  her  second  sleep  when  a  voice  in  her  ear  roused 
her  suddenly — 

"  Babet !  Babet !  "  it  said,  "  waken,  get  up  ! " 

Babet  awoke  with' a  start,  and  sat  up  rubbing  her  eyes.  Her 
mistress  stood  near  her  bed  with  a  light  in  her  hand. 

"  Your  master  is  ill,  Babet,"  she  said  ;  "get  up  and  fetch  a 
doctor!" 

The  idea  of  fetching  a  doctor  for  Monsieur  was  folly  in 
Babet's  eyes,  and  she  tried  to  convince  Beatrice  of  the  fact. 

"  Babet,  get  up,  I  say  !  "  interrupted  Beatrice.  "  I  tell  you  he 
is  ill,  and  unable  to  prescribe  for  himself !  Go  for  the  doctor  in 
the  next  street !  " 

"I  knew  he  was  wasting  away,"  dolefully  said  Babet;  "  I 
told  you  so." 

"Babet,  you  will  waken  the  children,"  very  calmly  remarked 
Beatrice.  She  felt  as  she  looked,  very  calm,  ready  to  act,  pre- 
pared for  every  thing,  and  able  and  willing  to  postpone  grief  until 
the  time  when  action  would  have  ceased  to  be  available. 

She  had  wakened  toward  four,  and  found  Gilbert  very  ill  in- 
deed ;  he  would  not  tell  her  how  ill  he  really  was,  because  he 
would  not  alarm  her  ;  but  she  saw  it,  and  at  once  she  got  up,  and 
roused  Babet.  And  Babet,  convinced  at  length  that  her  master 
needed  medical  assistance,  got  up,  dressed  with  all  speed,  went 
out,  and  soon  came  back  with  the  nearest  chemist. 

"  I  should  have  gone  myself,"  thought  Beatrice,  on  learning 
what  she  had  done ;  "  what  knowledge  or  experience  can  this 
man  have  ?  "  But  unwilling  to  hurt  any  one's  feelings,  she  al- 
lowed him  to  enter  Gilbert's  room. 

"  You  will  find,"  she  began,  then  stopped  short :  it  was  Doc- 
tor Rogerson  who  stood  before  her !  They  exchanged  amazed 
looks.  Was  this  the  mistress  of  Camoosie  ?  Was  that  chemist 
who  kept  a  shop  the  man  who  formerly  wrote  an  M.  D.  to  his 
name  ?     Truly  Mr.  Gervoise  had  conquered  and  humbled  them 


480  BEATRICE. 

both.  He  had  plundered  one  of  her  inheritance,  he  had  driven 
the  other  from  his  home,  a  disgraced  man.  Beatrice  recovered 
first. 

"  You  will  find  my  husband  very  unwell,"  she  said ;  and  to 
Gilbert  she  added,  "  This  is  Doctor  Rogerson." 

Doctor  Rogerson,  though  he  called  himself  Mr.  Rogerson 
now,  drew  near  the  sick-bed.  His  looks  told  Beatrice  that  her 
husband  was  very  ill.  His  hesitating  language  confirmed  it  when 
she  followed  him  down-stairs. 

"  We  will  get  him  round,"  he  said,  trying  to  speak  cheerfully, 
"  we  will  get  him  round,  but  it  will  take  time." 

Mechanically  Beatrice  saw  him  out,  and  stood  at  the  cottage 
door  as  he  walked  away.  The  morning  was  fresh,  dawn  was 
breaking  in  the  sky,  the  stars  were  going  out  one  by  one,  the 
street  was  very  quiet,  garden  trees  rose  dark  and  still  against 
sleeping  houses.  Beatrice  shut  the  door  on  that  calm  picture, 
and  entered  the  parlour  to  collect  her  thoughts.  She  saw,  by  the 
light  she  had  left  burning  on  the  table,  the  chair  in  which  her 
husband  had  been  sitting  a  few  hours  before  with  their  children 
around  him.  She  remembered  the  fulness  of  happiness  which 
there  had  been  in  her  heart,  and,  falling  down  on  her  knees,  she 
clasped  her  hands  and  prayed  passionately,  almost  desperately  ; 
for  in  the  anguish  of  that  hour  she  felt  as  if  the  blessing  she  had 
called  down  had  turned  into  a  curse.  It  had  seemed  impossible 
to  Beatrice  that  her  husband  should  die,  therefore  was  she  spared 
the  anguish  of  that  fear,  but  every  other  she  endured.  Doctor 
Rogerson  gave  her  hope,  but  he  clogged  hope  with  dire  condi- 
tions. Rest,  change  of  scene,  a  mild  climate,  would  secure  Gil- 
bert's final  recovery.  "  He  shall  have  them,"  said  Beatrice, 
almost  passionately;  "he  shall.  Doctor  Rogerson!  He  must 
live !  " 

Doctor  Rogerson's  lip  quivered.  His  wife,  unable  to  bear  up 
under  the  weight  of  their  troubles,  had  been  dead  six  months ; 
his  eldest  daughter  was  in  a  decline,  and  had  he  been  able  to  save 
one,  could  he  save  the  other  ?  Was  he  not  weighed  down  with 
shame  and  anxiety  and  care  ?  Had  not  Mr.  Gervoise  ruined  his 
name  and  hunted  him  out  of  Carnoosie  with  the  cruel  power  of 
the  strong,  and  where  was  the  remedy  for  it  all  ? 

Beatrice  left  him  with  despair  in  her  heart.  Oh  !  money,  you 
can  buy  life,  and  she  who  was  rich  once  had  never  known  it.  You 
can  give  health  and  peace  and  happiness,  and  she  learned  it  now 
that  you  had  left  her  grasp  for  ever.  She  hated  herself  for  hav- 
ing married  him  and  dragged  him  down,  for  having,  in  her  reck- 


BEATRICE.  481 

less  pride,  scorned  that  compromise  whicli,  if  she  had  accepted 
it,  might  have  saved  Gilbert.  Ah  !  what  did  she  care  about  her 
pride  now  ?  A  hundred  times  she  would  have  laid  it  under  Mr. 
Gervoise's  feet,  to  save  the  life  of  his  son. 

Two  days  after  this  Beatrice,  after  being  out  a  long  time, 
came  in  toward  evening.  Gilbert,  though  still  weak  and  laii- 
guid,  had  got  up,  and  was  sitting  near  the  parlour  window 
reading.  , 

"  How  flushed  you  are  ! "  he  said  ;  "  Beatrice,  you  must  give 
up  teaching  those  boys." 

She  did  not  answer.  She  could  not  tell  him  that  Mrs. 
Green  was  gone. 

"  You  must  teach  no  children  but  our  own,"  continued  Gil- 
bert. "  You  shall  lead  a  quiet,  happy,  and  domestic  life  ;  and  as 
I  am  jealous,  you  shall  not  stir  whilst  I  am  travelling  with  Mr. 
Balfour.  I  shall  set  Babet  as  a  Duenna  over  you,  and  woe  betide 
you  if  her  account  is  not  such  as  I  like  !  " 

How  ill-timed  often  is  the  jest  of  the  being  we  most  love ! 
how  often  it  jars  with  some  secret  mood  of  sadness  we  conceal  in 
very  tenderness  from  that  fond  gaze  !  Beatrice  tried  to  laugh, 
but  she  could  not  repress  a  nervous  thrill,  and  her  husband, 
whose  hands  clasped  hers,  detected  it  at  once.  He  guessed  she 
was  hiding  something  from  him,  and  on  that  suspicion  he  acted. 

"  I  wonder  Mr.  Balfour  has  not  called  upon  me  lately,"  he 
said. 

''  He  is  out  of  town,"  quickly  replied  Beatrice. 

"  Beatrice,  Mr.  Balfour  is  gone  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  stammered,  "  he  is," 

"Where?" 

"Very  far,  Gilbert." 

"  Beatrice — ^Mr.  Balfour  is  dead  ! " 

She  turned  very  pale  and  looked  frightened,  but  she  could 
not  deny  it.  Mr.  Balfour  was  dead ;  he  had  left  town  a  fort- 
night before,  and  died  almost  suddenly  on  his  arrival  in  Scotland. 

"  Poor  man  !  "  said  Gilbert,  after  awhile,  "  I  am  afraid  his 
complaint  was  not  understood.  Who  knows  if  I  could  not  have 
saved  him  ?  And  so  you  would  not  tell  me ! "  he  said,  after 
awhile.  "  Well,  this  is  a  blow,  Beatrice  ;  but  as  soon  as  I  get 
well  I  shall  bestir  myself — with  success,  I  hope." 

"  Gilbert,  you  want  rest — and  rest  you  must  have.  Mr.  Bal- 
four is  dead,  but  there  are  other  means.  I  have  written  to  An- 
tony's solicitor,  and  though  his  reply  is  niggardly  and  cruel,  still 
21 


482  BEATEICE. 

it  is  something ;  if  I  will  waive  all  future  right  to  Carnoosie,  he 
will  settle  a  hundred  a  year  upon  me." 

Gilbert  was  silent.  He  was  much  affected  ;  he  knew  as  well 
as  Doctor  Rogerson  his  real  state,  and  he  knew  for  whose  sake 
Beatrice  humbled  her  pride. 

"  Have  you  accepted? "  he  asked. 

"  I  would  not  without  your  knowledge,  Grilbert." 

"  Poor  Beatrice  !  "  he  said  at  length  ;  "a  sick  husband  and 
three  children  !     Oh  !  why  was  I  so  selfish  ?  " 

"  Alas  !  why  was  I  selfish?"  she  said,  clasping  her  hands  on 
her  knees.  "  Why  did  I  come  and  burden  you,  a  poor  man,  with 
a  poorer  wife  and  a  family  ?  Gilbert,  Elizabeth  said  that  every 
woe  of  her  life  was  called  Mary  Stuart ;  surely  you  may  say  that 
every  woe  of  your  life  is  called  Beatrice  Gordon  !  " 

"  Hush  !  "  he  interrupted  ;  "  we  are  not  wise  either  of  us. 
God  joined  us,  and  it  is  well.     Let  us  not  repent  or  murmur." 

"  Gilbert,  what  answer  shall  I  give  ?  " 

"  Beatrice,  you  must  decline.  You  have  no  right,  for  our 
present  convenience,  to  alienate  the  chance  of  such  an  inheritance 
from  our  children.  Let  them  never  say  that  their  parents  were 
cold  or  selfish  in  their  love." 

Without  a  word  of  demurring,  Beatrice  at  once  wrote  and  sent 
her  refusal.  And  yet  how  much  money  was  there  then  between 
them  and  utter  want  ?  Gilbert  did  not  ask,  and  his  wife  did  not 
dare  to  tell  him.  And  now  began  the  real  bitterness  of  their  lot. 
Gilbert  was  hardly  able  to  go  about  again  when  he  found  and 
accepted  some  work,  ^ome  wretchedly  paid  task,  that  needed  all 
his  time  and  all  his  strength.  He  slaved  at  it  until  he  had  a  re- 
lapse, and  could  not  go  on  ;  then  he  got  well  again,  and  worked 
once  more  ;  then  came  another  relapse.  And  so  weeks  wore  on, 
and  Beatrice  felt  that  to  see  him  wasting  life  and  strength  away 
in  this  fearful  struggle  was  more  than  she  could  bear. 

She  told  him  so  one  evening  when  he  came  in  suddenly  and 
found  her  in  tears. 

"  Beatrice,  what  is  it?  "  he  asked. 

"  Gilbert,  I  cannot  bear  it ! "  she  sobbed.  "  You  are  killing 
yourself,  and  I  cannot  bear  it ! " 

She  clasped  her  arms  around  him,  and  cried  on  his  shoulder 
as  if  her  heart  would  break.  Poor  Gilbert  heaved  a  deep  sigh. 
He  tried  to  comfort  her,  and  he  could  not.  He  was  killing  him- 
self, and  he  kn^w  it ;  he  was  hastening  on  the  fearful  day  when 
Beatrice  would  be  left  a  widow,  with  three  young  children,  and 
he  could  not  help  it.     The  pitiless  present  would  go  and  meet 


BEATRICE.  483 

that  terrible  future  which  would  assuredly  devour  it,  and  Gilbert 
was  helpless  and  powerless. 

"  Beatrice,"  he  said,  at  length,  "  this  is  a  trying  time,  but  we 
must  bear  it ;  think  how  happy  we  have  been  !  I  do  not  know, 
Beatrice,  if  ever  man  felt  more  perfect  happiness  than  I  felt  on 
the  day  when  I  brought  you  home  to  Verville.  You  entered  my 
house  sad  and  depressed,  wrecked  in  health  and  broken  in  spirit, 
and  before  sunset  you  were  bright  and  gay  and  loving.  Beatrice, 
we  have  been  very  happy  ;  beyond  the  lot  of  most.  There  has 
never  been  a  cloud  between  us.  We  did  not  waken  out  of  love 
into  indifference  or  hate,  but  through  every  trial  we  have  loved 
on,  a  great  and,  alas  !  a  rare  blessing.  We  have  children,  too, 
healthy,  handsome,  and,  it  seems  to  me,  good.  For  all  that  hap- 
piness we  must  pay  now  ;  let  us  not  grudge  Heaven  the  price  ! " 

Beatrice  did  not  answer,  but  she  shuddered  as  she  thought 
that  the  price  might  be  her  husband's. life 


CHAPTER  LIX. 

Whilst  poverty,  sorrow,  and  sickness  were  with  his  eldest 
son,  Mr.  Grervoise  enjoyed  life  in  Carnoosie.  His  health  was 
perfect,  and  health  is  to  the  body  what  an  easy  conscience  is  to 
the  mind.  An  easy  conscience  Mr.  Gervoise  also  enjoyed.  He 
was  far  too  wise  to  let  his  little  misdeeds  press  upon  it ;  he  for- 
gave himself  with  the  moslf  amiable  leniency,  or  rather  he  looked 
hard  and  fast  at  his  sins,  and  he  defied  them. 

Both  Mr.  Gervoise  and  his  younger  son  had  taken  Rosy's 
flight  very  quietly.  It  was  provoking  that  she  had  not  made  her 
will  before  running  away,  but  she  did  not  trouble  them  for  ali- 
mony, or  interfere  with  their  enjoyment  of  her  property  ;  and  she 
was  young  and  would  live  long,  and  they  were  satisfied — Mr. 
Gervoise  especially. 

And  now  we  must  note  a  change  in  the  man.  When  the  boa- 
constrictor  has  swallowed  his  goat,  or  despatched  his  couple  of 
rabbits,  he  sinks  into  sluggish  sleep.  Some  such  torpor  seemed 
to  have  overtaken  Mr.  Gervoise.  He  was  getting  alarmingly 
stout  in  body,  and  inert  and  lazy  in  mind.  His  triumph  over 
Beatrice  had  been  his  last  great  battle,  and  seemed  to  have  ex- 
hausted both  his  wiles  and  his  energy.  Monsieiu*  Panel's  cookery 
acquired  greater  charms  daily,  and  Beatrice's  cellar,  which  still 
yielded  exquisite  Chateau  Margaux,  was  ever  more  and  more 
prized  by  Beatrice's  conqueror.  With  alarming  rapidity  he  sank 
into  the  sensual  delights  of  his  ill-gotten  wealth.  The  pictures 
themselves  lost  some  of  their  beauty  in  his  eyes.  To  sit  and  eat, 
or  to  sit  and  sleep,  was  almost  the  only  variety  in  Mr.  Gervoise's 
daily  life. 

Antony's  life  was  not  less  sensual ;  but  he  was  still  a  young 
man,  and  his  sensuality,  which  had  ever  been  coarser  than  his 
father's,  was  also  more  energetic.  He  ate  less,  but  he  drank 
more  than  Mr.  Gervoise.  He  kept  his  hounds  and  his  horses, 
he  shot  and  he  hunted,  he  patronized  the  ring  and  betted  at  races, 
but  even  his  companions  could  not  be  called  his  associates,  much 


BEATRICE.  485 

less  his  friends.  Men  kept  aloof  from  him ;  and  Antony,  who 
was  not  thirty,  had  no  society  save  his  father's  or  that  of  his  ser- 
vants. The  sense  of  his  social  and  mental  degradation,  which 
had  never  been  keen,  got  blunted  with  time,  and  he  looked  on 
this  coarse  animal  life  as  embodying  every  enjoyment  existence 
was  meant  to  confer. 

To  the  promising  household  over  which  ruled  these  two  a 
visitor  came,  however,  in  the  early  part  of  the  winter  which 
opened  so  gloomily  for  Gilbert  and  his  wife.  Antony  entered 
his  father's  study  one  morning  and  found  Mr.  Gervoise  inditing 
a  letter.     He  bluntly  asked  to  whom  he  was  writing. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  aifectionately  replied  Mr.  Gervoise,  "  I  am 
writing  to  Miss  Jameson.  I  am  asking  her  to  come  to  Carnoo- 
sie.  I  learned  yesterday,  by  the  merest  chance,  that  she  has 
come  in  to  twenty  thousand  pounds,  and  I  think  it  only  right  to 
give  her  some  advice  concerning  the  management  of  her  money. 
Women  do  not  understand  these  matters." 

Antony  whistled. 

"  I  say,  don't  marry  her  though  !  "  he  said. 

"Why  not?"  mildly  rejoined  his  father.  "Miss  Jameson 
could  not  do  better  than  marry  me,  and  I  might  do  worse  than 
marry  her." 

Antony  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets  and  walked  away 
chuckling ;  Mr.  Gervoise  dipped  his  pen  into  his  bronze  inkstand 
and  resumed  his  Avriting. 

His  sleeping  intellect  had  suddenly  wakened.  A  new  fly  can 
tempt  even  the  gorged  spider,  and  Mr.  Gervoise  was  not  the  man 
to  let  twenty  thousand  pounds  escape  him  without  making  an 
effort  to  secure  them.  Two  plans  had  at  once  occurred  to  him. 
The  simplest  was  to  marry  Miss  Jameson,  the  most  complex  was 
to  induce  Miss  Jameson  to  come  and  live  with  him,  and  let  him 
manage  for  her  those  money  matters  which  are  so  apt  to  perplex 
female  minds ;  but  either  plan  was  to  appropriate  her  money. 
There  was,  we  are  sorry  to  say  it,  no  variety  in  Mr.  Gervoise's 
schemes.  The  fertility  of  his  invention  was  rather  displayed  in 
the  minute  detail  than  in  the  general  scope  of  his  undertakings. 
His  handsome  person  had  first  suggested  the  victims  he  should 
select.  Rich  women  he  found  answered  his  purpose,  and  to  rich 
women  he  kept.  Simplicity  after  all  is  the  test  of  genius,  and 
simplicity  had  marked  the  plans  which  had  enabled  Mr.  Ger- 
voise to  live  in  Carnoosie  for  nearly  twenty  years  undisturbed. 

His  present  tenure  of  Carnoosie,  however,  was  tinged  with 
uncertainty,  and  the  vision  of  Miss  Jameson's  twenty  thousand 


486  BEATRICE. 

pounds  was  very  attractive.  Why  not  marry  her,  sink  the  money 
at  ten  per  cent.,  and  enjoy  his  two  thousand  a  year,  exclusive  of 
his  other  little  pickings  ? 

These  considerations  dictated  the  cordial  letter  of  invitation 
which  Miss  Jameson  promptly  accepted,  and  which  brought  her 
to  the  gates  of  Carnoosie  two  days  after  it  had  been  written  by 
Mr.  Gervoise.  To  do  her  justice,  the  poor  lady  had  no  suspicion 
that  she  was  coming  to  a  bachelor's  establishment ;  and  when 
Mr.  Gervoise  came  out  to  meet  her,  and,  in  answer  to  her  in- 
quiries, coolly  said  that  his  daughter-in-law  was  not  at  home,  she 
saw,  but  saw  in  vain,  the  trap  into  which  she  had  fallen. 

"Dear  me!"  she  stammered,  "I  had  no  suspicion — I  did 
not  imagine — that  you  were  alone." 

Her  impulse  was  evidently  to  reenter  the  carriage  that  had 
brought  her,  but  Mr.  Gervoise  gave  her  no  time  to  do  so  ;  mildly, 
but  most  tenaciously,  did  he  take  hold  of  her  arm  and  lead  her 
into  the  house.     Once  she  was  in,  he  knew  he  was  sure  of  her. 

Dinner  was  ready,  and  Antony,  grave  and  decorous — ^he  had 
received  his  lesson,  and  it  amused  him  to  follow  it  out — charmed 
Miss  Jameson  by  the  gentlemanlike  courtesy  of  his  demeanour. 
But  Mr.  Gervoise  was  irresistible.  His  fine,  grand  manners  had 
all  come  back  to  him,  and  once  more  exercised  their  charm  over 
a  female  heart.  Then  the  grandeur  of  Carnoosie.  Ever  since 
she  had  been  expelled  from  that  paradise  Miss  Jameson  had 
sighed  over  and  deplored  her  lot.  Never  had  she  found  again 
those  lofty  rooms,  so  calm  and  so  stately ;  those  silent,  decorous 
servants,  those  wide  grounds,  so  shady  and  so  lovely ;  never 
especially  had  she  found  the  dishes  of  that  matchless  Panel,  whose 
genius  only  ripened  with  age,  and,  rare  privilege,  never  lost  the 
exuberance  of  youth.  Oh  !  to  live  and  die  in  a  house  like  this  ! 
Mr.  Gervoise  saw  at  a  glance  that  the  battle  was  won ;  but  he 
liked  to  linger  over  the  pleasure  of  victory,  so  he  did  not  speak 
until  the  third  morning.  The  interval  he  kindly  employed  in 
giving  Miss  Jameson  some  of  that  advice  which  her  altered  cir- 
cumstances required ;  but  on  the  third  morning,  as  we  said,  he 
spoke.  Miss  Jameson  gave  him  the  opportunity  by  talking  of 
her  departure. 

"  Go  !  You  cannot  think  of  going  ! "  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  with 
a  melancholy  start.     "  Oh  !  Miss  Jameson,  don't  forsake  me  ! " 

Miss  Jameson  blushed,  and  murmured  something  about  Mr. 
Gervoise's  kindness. 

"I  am  not  kind,"  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  " but  I  cannot  live 
without  woman.     I  cannot,  Miss  Jameson.     I  have  been  a  lost 


BEATEICE.  487 

man  since  my  dear  wife's  death.  My  step-daughter's  ingratitude 
nearly  broke  my  heart ;  and  ever  since  dear  little  Rosy  left  us  I 
have  felt  bewildered.  Dear -Miss  Jameson,  I  wish  you  would 
stay." 

"  But,  Mr.  Gervoise,  how  can  I  stay?"  said  Miss  Jameson, 
with  some  emotion.  "  No  lady  in  the  house — I  never  thought 
to  find  myself  so  situated." 

Mr.  Gervoise  hesitated. 

If  he  could  only  get  hold  of  Miss  Jameson's  money  without 
marrying  Miss  Jameson !  But  reflection,  sure  though  brief, 
showed  him  this  could  not  be  ;  so  he  composedly  said : 

"  How  can  you  stay  ?    Why,  as  my  wife,  of  course  ! " 

Miss  Jameson  was  not  exactly  taken  by  surprise ;  and  yet 
the  abrupt  declaration  seemed  to  amaze  her.  Mr.  Gervoise 
could  not  mean  it,  he  must  be  jesting. 

Jesting  with  a  lady,  and  on  such  a  subject !  Mr.  Gervoise 
looked  almost  offended.  Miss  Jameson's  ancient  awe  of  him 
returned,  and  she  stammered  out  an  apology.  Mr.  Gervoise 
begged  her  not  to  mention  it,  but  asked  to  be  favoured  with  a 
reply. 

The  same  impulse  which  had  made  Miss  Jameson  long  to 
reenter  the  carriage  three  days  before,  prompted  her  to  say 
"  no  ;"  and  the  same  weakness  which  had  made  her  reenter  Car- 
noosie  now  made  her  say  "  yes." 

Do  not  think  she  was  quite  deceived ;  she  was  not  so  foolish 
or  so  blind  as  not  to  know  the  source  of  Mr.  Gervoise's  sudden 
affection  ;  but  vanity  is  an  insatiable  passion,  and  Miss  Jameson's, 
though  stinted  her  whole  life  long,  had  never  been  starved  out. 
In  youth  it  had  fed  on  hollow  admiration,  and  then  it  had  been 
so  cunningly  blended  with  the  natural  longing  for  affection,  that 
few  could  have  detected  its  presence  in  Miss  Jameson.  But 
later,  when  the  blight  fell  on  her  life — when  first  love  proved 
false  and  second  love  never  came  to  comfort  and  atone — when 
Miss  Jameson  saw  youth,  and  her  share  of  beauty,  melting  away 
for  ever  in  the  pitiless  crucible  of  time — when  she  felt  herself 
neglected,  slighted,  laughed  at  by  the  young  and  the  insolent — 
when  to  read  novels  was  to  dream  of  what  might  have  been,  and 
to  know  what  would  never  come  to  pass — then  the  serpent  vanity 
stung  her  sluggish  nature,  and  almost  roused  it  to  active  wicked- 
ness. Then,  all  longing  for  tenderness  and  love  being  over.  Miss 
Jameson  acquired  a  sordid  longing  for  marriage,  for  ample  means 
and  a  home  to  suit.  Then,  when  her  twenty  thousand  pounds 
came  to  her,  she  trembled  with  joy  to  think  she  could  purchase 


488  BEATRICE. 

what  her  youth  and  beauty  had  failed  to  get.  To  look  for  a 
husband  and  to  drive  a  good  bargain  became  Miss  Jameson's 
secret  aim ;  and  it  flattered  her  vanity  to  find  that  she  had  not 
even  the  trouble  of  looking.  Love,  marriage,  Carnoosie,  were 
laid  at  her  feet.  The  house  where  she  had  been  silently  hated 
by  Mrs.  Gervoise,  and  openly  scorned  by  Beatrice,  would  now 
become  her  home,  and  call  her  all  but  mistress. 

The  price  at  which  these  privileges  were  bought,  the  uncer- 
tain tenure  on  which  they  were  held.  Miss  Jameson  would  not 
see.  Voluntarily  she  closed  her  eyes  and  rushed  upon  her  fate. 
Mrs.  Gervoise  would  not  know  it  in  her  grave,  but  Beatrice 
would  learn,  in  her  humiliation  and  her  poverty,  that  the  poor 
governess  whom  she  had  so  often  humbled  now  filled  her  mother's 
place,  and  enjoyed  the  home  of  which  she  had  once  been  mistress. 

"  My  dear  love,"  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  becoming  conjugal  with 
all  speed,  "  I  am  sure  you  will  agree  with  me  that  the  matter 
cannot  be  settled  too  speedily." 

Miss  Jameson  thought  so  too ;  she  was  candid  enough  to 
raise  no  objection  ;  so  a  prompt  and  private  marriage  was  agreed 
upon.  It  was  to  be  followed  by  a  brief  excursion  to  the  Isle  of 
Wight,  whence  the  happy  pair  were  to  return  to  Carnoosie.  The 
privacy  of  the  ceremony  rather  darkened  the  glory  of  becoming 
Mrs.  Gervoise  in  Miss  Jameson's  eyes ;  but  her  future  husband 
gave  her  so  many  excellent  reasons  for  avoiding  publicity,  that 
she  yielded,  though  somewhat  reluctantly. 

Antony,  with  kind  regard  for  his  father's  love  matters,  kept 
oiit  of  the  way  as  much  as  he  could  ;  so  Mr.  Gervoise's  courtship 
went  on  admirably,  until  two  days  only  separated  him  from  the 
fourth  happiest  day  of  his  life  ;  and  then,  so  perverse  is  fate,  there 
came  a  hitch,  and  the  golden  prize  which  he  had  nearly  grasped 
escaped  him  for  ever. 

It  occurred  thus : 

Antony,  his  father,  and  the  future  bride  were  taking  tea, 
when  a  letter  was  brought  for  Miss  Jameson.  A  look  told  Mr. 
Gervoise  that  this  blue  foolscap  envelope  contained  business  in 
its  folds,  and,  with  the  rapid  intuition  of  genius,  he  smilingly  re- 
quested her  to  read  it,  to  stand  upon  no  ceremony. 

Miss  Jameson,  who  knew  the  writing  of  her  solicitor,  put 
down  her  half-tasted  cup  of  tea,  and  tearing  open  the  envelope, 
read  its  contents.  They  were  brief,  yet  she  read  them  twice 
over,  then  she  turned  ghastly  pale,  stared  at  Mr.  Gervoise,  and 
sank  back  in  her  chair  in  a  fainting  fit.  Antony's  hand  was  ex- 
tended to  ring  the  bell,  but  his  father  prevented  him. 


BEATRICE.  489 

"  Wait,"  he  said  quietly  ;  and  taking  from  Miss  Jameson's 
inert  hand  the  letter,  he  read — 

"  Dear  Madam, 

"•  I  regret  to  inform  you  that  Messrs.  Luke  and 
Son,  in  whose  hands,  contrary  to  my  advice,  as  you  may  remem- 
ber, you  left  your  £20,000,  have  stopped  payment. 

"  Yours  obediently, 

"James  Didson." 

In  a  moment  Mr.  Gervoise's  course  lay  clear  before  him. 
Most  affectionately  he  poured  some  cold  water  on  Miss  Jame- 
son's face,  clapped  her  on  the  back,  and  succeeded  in  restoring 
her  to  consciousness. 

"  Oh  !  Mr.  G-ervoise  !  "  she  cried. 

"  What  is  it?"  he  asked,  "  you  alarm  me." 

"  My  bankers  have  stopped  payment !  "  gasped  Miss  Jameson. 

"  Dear  me  !  that  is  very  bad,  very  bad  ;  but  where's  the  use 
ol*  fretting  ?  Who  were  your  bankers,  Miss  Jameson  ?  "  and  he 
patted  her  hand  tenderly. 

"  Luke  and  Son,"  she  replied,  gathering  courage  at  his  kind- 
ness. 

"  Luke  and  Son  !  "  Mr.  Gervoise  looked  thunderstruck. 
"  Luke  and  gon,"  he  repeated.     "  Did  you  say  Luke  and  Son  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  was  her  faint  reply. 

"  Then  I  am  a  beggar  !  "  cried  Mr.  Gervoise  ;  "  every  penny 
I  had  was  in  their  hands.  My  dear  boy,"  turning  to  Antony, 
"  your  father  is  a  beggar  in  his  old  age  !  " 

Miss  Jameson  sat  up  and  looked  at  the  two  men.  She  did 
not  believe  a  word  of  it,  she  did  not ;  she  knew  it  was  a  lie,  a 
bold,  bad  lie,  to  cast  her  away  remorselessly  ;  and  though  not  a 
violent  woman,  she  set  her  teeth,  and  clenched  her  hands,  not  to 
cry  out  in  the  vehemence  of  her  rage  and  despair  at  such  treat- 
ment. But  the  sense  of  her  powerlessness  overcame  her  weak 
anger.  She  was  helpless,  poor,  and  once  more  thrown  upon  life. 
She  burst  into  piteous  tears,  not  one  of  which  softened  Mr.  Ger- 
voise from  his  purpose.  He  rang  the  bell  and  ordered  the  car- 
riage. 

"  This  is  dreadful !  "  he  said  ;  "  but  you  must  be  strong  for 
us  both,  dear  Miss  Jameson.  I  am  too  much  overcome  to  act. 
I  rely  on  your  superior  sense.  You  must  go  to  town  at  once, 
and  sift  this  frightful  matter  to  the  bottom.  Mind  you  write  to 
me  by  every  post.  I  shall  join  you  as  soon  as  I  have  recovered 
the  first  severity  of  the  blow." 
21* 


490  BEATEICE. 

Sullen  and  silent  Miss  Jameson  heard  him.  She  could  not 
realize  the  double  calamity — the  loss  of  the  money  and  his  inso- 
lent abandonment ;  but  Mr.  Gervoise  gave  her  no  time  to  re- 
cover. He  became  ubiquitous  in  his  anxiety  to  despatch  her. 
He  helped  the  servants  to  bundle  her  things  into  her  trunk  ;  he 
put  on  her  cloak,  and  all  but  tied  her  bonnet  strings ;  he  took 
'  her  arm,  and  made  her  rise  from  the  chair  and  led  her  out  of 
the  house,  and  gently,  but  most  determinedly,  propelled  her  into 
the  carriage.  When  she  was  there,  Miss  Jameson  turned  her 
ghastly  face  toward  him.  It  was  older  by  ten  years  than  when 
she  had  entered  Carnoosie,  and  there  was  something  fearful  in 
its  mingled  rage  and  despair. 

"  Mr.  Gervoise,"  she  said,  "  your  baseness  and  your  treach- 
ery will  get  their  reward  some  day." 

She  pulled  up  the  glass  ;  Mr.  Gervoise  had  heard  her  with 
unmoved  serenity,  standing  before  her  bareheaded  and  courteous, 
and  when  choking  with  rage  she  ceased  and  leaned  back  in  the 
carriage,  he  made  her  his  very  grandest  bow,  and  still  stood  po- 
lite and  calm  as  the  carriage  drove  off,  bearing  away  Miss 
Jameson  and  her  wrongs,  and  her  useless  resentment. 

These  grand  ways  were  natural  to  Mr.  Gervoise.  He  could 
have  murdered  politely,  even  as,  when  there  was  need  to  do  so, 
he  could  fawn  with  all  the  dignity  and  the  stateliness  in  the 
world.  Moreover,  he  was  accustomed  to  such  weak  and  foolish 
menaces.  Had  not  all  his  victims,  from  Beatrice  to  Rosy  down- 
wards, threatened  him  with  retribution,  and  what  had  it  come 
to  ?  Therefore,  perhaps,  could  he  remain  unmoved  and  calm, 
whatever  was  said  and  whatever  happened.  Nature  had  given 
him  a  fine  person  and  a  temper  of  aristocratic  repose.  They 
who  hated  and  despised  him  felt  it  as  well  as  his  merest  dupes. 
Mr.  Gervoise  could  lie,  cheat,  and  plunder  with  the  serenity  of 
innocence.  Falsehood  fell  from  his  lips  as  easily  as  truth  flows 
from  the  lips  of  the  just  man.  He  was  polished  and  ruthless  as 
a  steel  blade.  He  could  be  insolent,  too,  when  insolence  served 
his  turn  ;  and  there  were  few  moods  he  could  not  take  up,  and 
few  deeds  he  could  not  perform,  with  this  grand  serenity.  He 
could  dismiss  a  maid  of  all  work  and  cheat  her  of  her  wages, 
or  rob  an  heiress  of  her  patrimony,  with  the  same  splendid  equa- 
nimity ;  take  cent,  per  cent,  from  a  half  ruined  wretch,  or  drive 
a  hard  bargain  with  his  own  son  ;  claim  a  stray  tablecloth  as  his 
property,  or  refuse  to  pay  his  debts — all  with  equal  composure. 

He  was  born  so,  and  so  he  had  pursued  his  course  through 
life,  cheating,  robbing,  deceiving,  and  conquering  all  who  came 


BEATRICE.  491 

within  his  reach,  knowing  neither  anger,  nor  pity,  nor  weakness, 
never  swerving  from  the  aim  in  view,  even  though  his  path  were 
strewn  with  human  lives  and  tears  ;  doubling  back  but  to  take 
a  surer  spring,  submitting  to  seeming  defeat  the  better  to  pre- 
vail in  the  end,  perverse  and  false  to  the  heart's  core,  yet  in  his 
very  falsehood  and  perversity  making  a  sort  of  grand  whole,  a 
moral  completeness  of  a  deeply  bad  man. 

Unmoved  by  his  parting  with  Miss  Jameson,  he  now  turned 
to  the  house.     In  the  hall  he  found  Antony  grinning. 

"  You  have  had  an  escape,  though  !  "  said  the  young  man. 

"  Do  not  mention  it,"  replied  his  father,  shuddering. 

And  whilst  Mr.  Gervoise  rejoiced  at  his  escape,  Miss  Jame- 
son felt  in  a  frightful  nightmare.  It  seemed  a  hideous  dream  to 
have  been  rich,  and  to  be  penniless,  and  all  within  a  few  hours. 
The  independence,  the  married  life,  the  Carnoosie  state,  were  all 
over  at  one  fell  blow,  and  in  their  stead  appeared  the  dreary  life 
of  toil  and  humiliation,  which  is  hard  in  youth,  but  more  than 
bitter  in  age. 

A  train  had  just  come  in  when  Miss  Jameson  reached  the 
station.  As  she  was  entering  the  waiting-room  she  saw  a  neat 
little  gentleman  in  black,  in  whom  she  recognized  her  solicitor, 
Mr.  Didson.     He  was  passing  by  her  when  she  stopped  him. 

"  You  want  me,"  she  said  eagerly  ;  "  here  I  am,  Mr.  Didson 
— wha1»  news  ?  " 

Mr.  Didson  stared.  His  letter  had  been  forwarded  from 
Miss  Jameson's  town  residence,  and  she  was  the  last  person  he 
expected  to  find  near  Carnoosie. 

"  News  !  what  news.  Miss  Jameson?" 

"  About  Luke  &  Co." 

"  Ah  !  you  know  I  advised  you  against  them." 

"  Then  I  am  penniless,"  she  moaned. 

"  Very  sad,  but  they  will  give  something  in  the  pound.  Seven 
or  eight  shillings,  I  believe." 

Miss  Jameson  revived.  Her  loss  was  severe,  but  not  com- 
plete. It  was  no  longer  a  thousand  a  year,  but  it  was  still  in- 
dependence. 

"Are  you  sure  of  it?"  she  asked,  trembling  with  anxious 
hope. 

"  Oh  !  dear  no,  how  should  I  be  sure  of  it? — ^but  there  will 
be  something — I  am  sure  of  that." 

Certainty  thus  qualified  made  Miss  Jameson's  heart  sink. 

"  I  believe  you  know  Mr.  Gervoise,"  said  Mr.  Didson,  "  can 
you  tell  me  if  he  is  at  Carnoosie?" 


492  BEATEICE. 

"  Yes,  I  have  just  left  his  house.     Are  you  going  there?" 

"  Just  so.     I  mean  the  son,  you  know." 

Miss  Jameson  looked  at  him  eagerly. 

"  They  are  both  at  home,"  she  said ;  "  what  do  you  want  with 
them?" 

"  Business,"  replied  Mr.  Didson. 

"Is  it  an  execution?"  she  whispered ;  "lean  tell  you  all 
about  the  plate  and  the  pictures — don't  give  them  time  to  hide  or 
take  away — there  is  nothing  they  will  not  do." 

"  It  is  not  exactly  an  execution,"  replied  Mr.  Didson,  without 
taking  offence  at  the  supposition,  "  but  I  do  not  mind  knowing 
about  those  little  things." 

Eagerly  Miss  Jameson  began  telling  him  all  she  knew,  and 
her  memory  was  both  pitiless  and  accurate,  and  very  composedly 
Mr.  Didson  took  notes  of  all  she  told  him. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  have  made  you  lose  the  train,"  he  said  when 
he  had  done. 

"  Oh  !  never  mind  that,"  replied  Miss  Jameson,  significantly, 
"  only  please,  if  you  find  an  opportunity,  do  tell  Mr.  Gervoise 
what  I  have  done  for  him." 

"  I  shall  not  fail  doing  so,"  replied  Mr.  Didson,  shrewdly. 
"  Good  morning,  Miss  Jameson." 

He  went  on  his  way,  and  Miss  Jameson  sat  down  in  the 
waiting-room,  glad  to  think  that  trouble  was  coming  to  her  enemy, 
and  that  she  had  helped  to  add  a  new  thorn  to  his  lot. 


CHAPTER    LX. 

The  morning  of  Miss  Jameson's  departure  was  one  of  bril- 
liant frost,  and  Mr.  Gervoise,  who  was  chilly,  enjoyed  his  fire 
and  his  paper  in  his  study.  Now  and  then  he  raised  his  eyes 
from  the  columns  of  the  Times,  to  look  at  the  blazing  logs,  or  to 
glance  at  the  bright  though  cold  landscape  without.  Through 
the  nearest  window  he  could  see  the  sparkling  icicles  of  one  of 
the  four  fountains,  a  corner  of  the  flower  garden  hoar  with  the 
night's  frost,  the  tall  evergreens  which  skirted  the  grounds  of 
Carnoosie,  so  that  verdure  should  ever  meet  the  eye,  whatever 
might  be  the  season  of  the  year,  and,  above  all  these,  a  sharp 
blue  sky,  and  Mr.  Gervoise  enjoyed  them  all ;  the  newspaper, 
with  its  stories  of  disasters,  from  which  he  was  safe — the  bitter 
cold,  of  which  not  a  breath  reached  him — ^the  warm,  luxurious 
room,  with  its  thick  carpet  and  heavy  curtains — the  bright  fire 
with  its  blazing  heat. 

Ever  since  the  days  of  Lucretius  there  have  been  men  who 
have  found  it  pleasant  to  contrast  their  own  safety  on  shore  with 
the  despair  and  woe  of  the  shipwrecked  wretch  at  sea.  We  do 
not  know  if  Mr.  Gervoise  had  read  the  Roman  poet,  nor  yet,  if 
having  read  him,  he  put  the  right  construction  on  the  famous 
passage  ;  but  this  we  know,  that,  as  he  sat  there  reading,  looking, 
and  enjoying,  the  remembrance  of  his  insolent  success  filled  him 
with  sensuous  pleasure,  and  that  he  hugged  himself,  not  so  much 
in  a  vindictive  as  in  a  selfish  spirit,  when  he  thought  of  the  de- 
feats of  his  tools  or  of  his  victims.  An  old  man  who  had  fretted 
his  foolish  life  away  was  sleeping  in  the  cold  damp  vaults  of  Car- 
noosie Church  ;  let  him,  he  had  died  to  make  room  for  Mr.  Ger- 
voise ;  two  men  had  been  struck  out  of  his  path — ^let  them,  they 
were  in  the  way  ;  a  haughty  woman  was  eating  her  own  heart  in 
poverty  and  grief,  let  her  ;  it  was  for  Mr.  Gervoise  that  her  in- 
heritance had  been  wrested  from  her.  A  father  had  gone  down 
to  his  grave  and  left  his  child  a  helpless  orphan  ;  let  him,  if  he  had 
lived  he  would  have  been  dangerous.     A  poor  young  wife  was  a 


494  BEATKICE. 

fugitive  and  an  exile  ;  let  her,  Mr.  Gervoise  enjoyed  her  home 
and  revelled  in  her  substance.  A  vindictive  servant  was  raving 
about  her  revenge  ;  a  ruined  man  was  hiding  his  disgraced  head 
far  away ;  another  woman  had  gone  that  very  morning  with 
hatred  in  her  heart  and  threats  on  her  lips  ;  let  her,  let  them 
all  say,  feel,  or  do  what  they  pleased.  He  was  stronger  than 
they  were,  for  he  had  conquered  them  every  one — some  by  death, 
some  by  sorrow,  some  by  money,  all  by  indomitable  will  and  re- 
morseless art.  He  had  conquered  them,  and  he  stood  safe  on 
life's  warm  shores,  whilst  they  were  engulphed  by  or  tossing  on 
its  stormy  waves. 

"Fool!"  says  the  voice  in  the  parable  of  the  miser,  "  this 
very  night  do  they  require  thy  soul  from  thee  ! " 

And  even  whilst  Mr.  Gervoise  was  exulting,  his  soul,  not 
that  which  he  had  received  from  his  Maker,  but  that  which  he  had 
made  for  himself,  and  which  he  loved  with  eager  and  passionate 
love — ^his  large  share  of  this  world's  goods — was  required  from 
him,  and  the  messenger  had  crossed  his  gates  and  stood  at  his 
threshold. 

Mr.  Gervoise  was  sinking  into  a  doze,  when  a  servant  brought 
him  in  Mr.  Didson's  card.  He  remembered  the  name  and  smiled. 
Poor  Miss  Jameson  !  But  no,  that  was  not  it ;  Mr.  Didson  had 
asked  to  see  Mr.  Antony  Gervoise,  who  was  asleep.  He  often 
was  asleep  in  the  morning,  twice  a  week  generally,  so  his  father 
kindly  asked  Mr.  Didson  to  be  shown  in.  No  sooner  did  Mr. 
Didson  enter  the  study,  than  Mr.  Gervoise  recognized  an  enemy 
in  that  neat  little  man.  At  all  times  the  visits  of  legal  men  have 
something  ominous  in  them — they  rarely  portend  good,  they  fre- 
quently bring  tidings  of  evil.  Mr.  Gervoise  looked  on  his  visitor 
with  a  mistrustful  eye,  and  received  him  with  wary  courtesy. 

"  My  son  is  too  unwell  to  see  you  this  morning,"  he  said, 
motioning  Mr.  Didson  to  take  a  seat ;  "  will  you  call  again,  or 
will  you  speak  to  me?" 

To  all  appearance  the  lawyer's  choice  was  a  matter  of  no  mo- 
ment to  Mr.  Gervoise.  There  was  not  a  shadow  of  curiosity  on 
his  face,  no  eagerness  in  his  voice,  no  discomposure  in  his  man- 
ner. Mr.  Didson  had  learned  from  Miss  Jameson  which  was 
Antony's  prevailing  complaint,  and  also  that  the  symptoms  were 
apt  to  be  violent.  He  expressed  his  willingness  to  unfold  his 
errand  to  Mr.  Gervoise,  and  he  added  with  formal  seriousness : 

"  My  errand  is  a  painful  one.  I  met  Miss  Jameson  at  the 
station,  and  I  gathered  from  her  that  you  are  unacquainted  with 
the  tidings  I  bring.    I  was  Mrs.  Antony  Gervoise's  legal  adviser." 


BEATEICE.  495 

Subtle  intellects  take  in  a  wide  range  of  thought  with  mar- 
vellous quickness.  The  word  "  was "  told  Mr.  Gervoise  all; 
and  in  one  moment  he  weighed  the  event  and  its  consequences. 
His  hand  grasped  the  arm  of  his  chair,  his  brain  reeled — for  the 
blow  was  sudden  and  fearful.  He  felt  as  if  a  strong  hand  had 
taken  him  from  a  dizzy  height  and  dropped  him  down  to  the  sick- 
ening depths  below  ;  but  he  was  a  man  of  strong  nerve,  he  was 
ODe,  too,  inured  to  life-long  deceit,  and  neither  in  look,  nor  in 
sudden  paleness,  nor  in  quivering  muscle,  did  his  immovable  face 
betray  the  despair  within.     Mr.  Didson  resumed  : 

"  Mrs.  Antony  Gervoise  died  a  week  ago." 

Mr.  Gervoise  gave  a  surprised  start  and  heaved  a  deep  sigh. 

"  My  poor  boy  !  "  he  said  in  a  tone  of  deep  feeling. 

He  looked  and  acted  his  parental  part  to  perfection.  If  he 
had  had  a  life-long  lease  of  Carnoosie  he  could  not  have  seemed 
more  full  of  Antony's  grief,  and  less  troubled  about  the  other 
consequences  of  Rosy's  death. 

"  But,  Mr.  Didson,"  he  resumed,  after  a  brief  pause,  "  can 
this  be  true  ?     She  was  so  young.     It  seems  impossible." 

"  Just  so,"  calmly  said  Mr.  Didson ;  "  but  I  have  Mrs. 
Ronald's  letter,  and  a  Swiss  burial  certificate  attested  by  the 
English  consul,  which  I  shall  submit  to  Mr.  Antony  Gervoise 
when  he  is  well  enough  to  see  me." 

"  I  am  afraid  that  will  not  be  just  yet,  Mr.  Didson.  Had  I 
not  better  take  down  your  address,  and  request  our  solicitors  to 
manage  this  matter  with  you.     Lincolns  Inn,  I  believe  ?  ** 

"  It  will  save  time  if  you  direct  to  the  '  George,'  Carnoo- 
sie," replied  Mr.  Didson. 

Mr.  Gervoise  looked  very  grand,  and  seemed  to  expand  as  he 
half  rose  from  his  seat. 

"  Am  I  to  understand,  sir,  that  you  are  staying  here  to  watch 
us?  "  he  asked.  "  You  are  welcome,  sir.  "We  do  not  fear  the 
scrutiny  of  our  enemies." 

"  Just  so,"  replied  Mr.  Didson  with  imperturbable  coolness  ; 
"  but  the  late  Mrs.  Antony  Gervoise  requested  me  not  to  leave 
Carnoosie  until  I  had  seen  the  heiress-at-law  in  possession." 

"  Poor  thing !  "  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  calming  down,  "  she  for- 
got all  about  the  deed,  I  suppose." 

He  glanced  furtively  at  Mr.  Didson ;  but  that  gentleman 
came  to  receive,  not  to  give  information,  and  he  sat  with  his  hat 
between  his  knees  looking  perfectly  unmoved. 

"  Mr.  Didson,"  resumed  Mr.  Gervoise,  "  it  may  save  you 
trouble  if  I  tell  you  that  a  deed  in  my  son's  favour  was  executed 


496  BEATRICE. 

by  Mrs.  Antony  Gervoise  more  than  two  years  ago.  I  shall  in- 
struct my  solicitors,  in  whose  keeping  the  deed  is,  to  submit  it  to 
you.  A  deed,  I  need  not  tell  you,  is  irrevocable,  and  cannot  be 
cancelled  by  a  subsequent  will." 

"  Just  so,"  said  Mr.  Didson,  rising.  "  I  can  see  Mr.  Antony 
Gervoise  to-morrow,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  see  him  now?"  said  Mr.  Ger- 
voise defiantly. 

"  I  should  much  prefer  it." 

"  Then  I  will  go  and  break  the  news  to  him,"  resumed  Mr. 
Gervoise  in  a  much  milder  tone. 

He  began  to  suspect  that  it  might  be  better  to  get  rid  of  Mr. 
Didson  at  once,  than  have  him  come  again. 

Mr.  Didson  resumed  his  seat  with  the  easy  indifference  of  a 
man  to  whom  all  this  was  of  no  personal  interest,  and  Mr.  Ger- 
voise went  up  to  his  son's  room. 

It  was  a  handsome  room,  luxuriously  furnished,  but  there 
was  profligacy  and  coarseness  in  its  disorder.  Damask  furni- 
ture, velvet  carpets,  costly  woods  and  rich  carving,  could  not  hide 
the  foul  stain :  here  dwelt  a  vitiated  mind  and  a  degraded  frame. 

Antony  had  not  attempted  to  get  up  that  morning  :  his  flushed 
face  lay  on  his  pillow,  and  he  slept  sound  and  fast. 

"  That  boy  will  kill  himself  with  drink  some  day,"  thought 
Mr.  Gervoise  uneasily  ;  but  he  had  no  time  to  linger  on  such  con- 
siderations now,  and  he  called  out  aloud — 

"  Antony  !  waken  up  !  " 

A  deep  snore  was  Antony's  reply. 

With  mingled  impatience  and  disgust  Mr.  Gervoise  shook  the 
drunkard's  shoulder  and  called  him  again. 

"  Antony,  waken  up  !     I  have  news  for  you." 

"What  is  it?"  growled  Antony,  opening  one  bloodshot  eye. 

"  Your  wife  is  dead ! " 

Mr.  Gervoise  spoke  in  a  cold,  hard  voice,  and  Antony  sat 
up,  sobered  at  once. 

"  Dead !  "  he  repeated,  and  he  looked  at  his  father,  who  re- 
turned the  gaze. 

Thus  they  remained  a  few  seconds  looking  hard  at  each  other, 
until  Antony  grew  more  and  more  sallow,  and  finally  burst  into 
tears. 

"  Idiot ! "  sarcastically  said  his  father. 

"  You  have  been  my  ruin  !  "  fiercely  cried  Antony,  clenching 
his  fist.  "  You  have  !  But  for  you  she  would  never  have  run 
away  from  me — never  !     Oh  !  Rosy  ! — Rosy  ! — my  little  Rosy  ! " 


BEATEICE.  497 

He  flung  himself  down  on  the  bed  in  a  transport  of  grief. 

"  Idiot !  "  said  his  father  again,  "  a  lawyer  is  in  the  house, 
and  you  must  have  your  wits  about  you.  Antony,  I  suspect 
you.  I  am  afraid  you  are  not  square.  You  are  just  the  fool  to 
run  your  head  into  a  noose,  and  I  tell  you  a  lawyer,  and  a  sharp 
one,  too,  is  in  the  house.  Be  cautious,  answer  no  questions,  and 
leave  every  thing  to  me." 

By  this  Antony  was  sufficiently  collected  to  remember  that  if 
his  wife  was  dead  he  was  an  intruder  in  Carnoosie,  now  probably 
Beatrice  Gordon's  property.     He  shook  his  fist  at  the  thought. 

"  She  shall  never  have  it !  "  he  cried,  with  foaming  lips.  "  I 
will  burn  the  house  down  first." 

"  Antony,"  said  his  father,  sententiously,  "  you  are  a  brute, 
and  you  disgust  me.  I  could  not  find  out  from  the  lawyer 
whether  there  was  a  will  or  not,  but  I  have  told  him  there  is  a 
deed  in  your  favour.  Get  up,  dress  yourself,  see  the  man,  and 
do  not  contradict  me. 

"  A  deed?"  said  Antony,  and  he  looked  at  his  father,  think- 
ing he  guessed  his  meaning. 

"  Yes,  a  deed.     Do  you  understand  me  ?  " 

Antony  nodded,  but  he  added  doubtfully  : 

"  Can  you  do  her  signature  ?  " 

Mr.  Gervoise  remained  aghast. 

"  You  depraved  wretch  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Do  you  want  me 
to  turn  forger,  and  get  transported  ?  " 

"  Then  what  are  you  bothering  me  with  a  deed  for  ?  "  cried 
Antony,  irritated  and  ashamed. 

"  Sleep  out  your  drunkenness,"  said  his  father,  contemptu- 
ously, "  and  do  not  attempt  to  see  Mr.  Didson." 

Antony  did  not  answer  ;  he  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the 
bed,  his  golden  locks  tangled,  his  once  handsome  face  bloated, 
his  once  fine  eyes  bloodshot ;  every  thing  in  him  telling  of  men- 
tal and  bodily  degradation  ;  but  over  all  that  wreck  of  youth,  and 
youth's  choicest  gifts,  hung  the  shadow  of  a  remorse  and  grief 
his  more  guilty  father  would  never  know.  Ay  !  Rosy,  you  were 
with  him  in  that  avenging  hour,  and  your  pale  face  haunted  him 
— not  that  he  had  loved  you  much,  not  that  he  was  good  at 
heart,  but  because,  though  guilty  and  depraved,  he  was  young. 
Wait  a  few  years — if  God  gives  them  to  him — and  Antony  will 
be  as  callous  and  as  smooth  as  the  old  man  who  stands  looking 
at  him  with  a  cynical  eye. 

With  a  contemptuous  sneer  Mr.  Gervoise  left  his  son ;  but 
even  as  he  closed  Antony's  door  he  gave  him  up.     Carnoosie 


498  BEATRICE. 

was  lost — lost  for  ever — unless  he  wrenched  it  back  with  a  des- 
perate effort.  He  had  reckoned  on  Rosy's  youth,  but  he  was 
baffled  by  death  ;  no  matter,  he  must  conquer  his  lost  prize  anew. 
Antony's  rights  died  with  his  wife.  Antony  must  be  given  up, 
and  given  up  for  Gilbert.  Now  it  was  that  Mr.  Gervoise  reaped 
the  fruits  of  his  wisdom  in  making  his  two  sons  marry  the  rival 
heiresses.  Beatrice's  hatred  and  mistrust  Mr.  Gervoise  could 
not  overcome,  but  he  could  twist  Gilbert  round  his  little  finger. 
Gilbert  would  never  enter  Carnoosie  if  by  doing  so  he  would 
seem  to  turn  out  his  father.  Was  it  not  possible  by  giving  back 
Verville,  by  makina:  money  concessions,  by  cutting  down  some 
of  the  timber,  was  it  not  possible  to  make  Gilbert's  share  ample, 
and  yet  secure  Carnoosie  for  his  own  lifetime?  It  would  be 
hard  indeed  to  make  terms,  but  not  so  hard  as  making  none,  to 
leave  that  noble  home  for  ever.  These  thoughts  passed  in  rapid 
succession  through  Mr.  Gervoise's  brain,  and  they  ended  as  they 
had  begun  with — "  I  must  give  up  Antony,  and  I  will  stay  in 
Carnoosie  ;  let  Gilbert  eject  me  if  he  dare  ! " 

In  this  mood  he  went  back  to  Mr.  Didson  with  the  informa- 
tion that  his  poor  boy  was  too  much  overwhelmed  with  the  sor- 
rowful news  to  see  him  that  day. 

"  At  what  hour  to-nfiorrow  can  I  see  Mr.  Antony  Gervoise  ?  " 
asked  Mr.  Didson,  rising. 

"  About  this  time,"  carelessly  replied  Mr.  Gervoise. 

Mr.  Didson  looked  at  his  watch,  and  took  his  leave  with  an 
easy  coolness  which,  for  once,  Mr.  Gervoise  envied.  What  was 
it  to  that  neat  little  man  in  black  in  whose  hands  Carnoosie  re- 
mained or  passed?  He  was  paid  to  do  certain  things,  and  he 
did  them  keenly  and  shrewdly,  but  impassible  as  the  ancient 
Fate,  before  whom  the  very  gods  trembled.  Mr.  Gervoise  saw 
him  to  the  door  with  his  grand  serenity  and  stately  courtesy ; 
but  as  soon  as  the  sound  of  Mr.  Didson's  steps  had  ceased,  he 
sank  in  his  chair,  dull,  inert,  and  exhausted  with  the  part  he 
had  acted,  and  the  strain  he  had  put  on  his  nerves.  The  de- 
spair he  had  forced  back,  the  fears  he  had  defied,  the  exaspera- 
tion he  had  kept  under  with  inexorable  will  whilst  he  was  listen- 
ing to  Mr.  Didson  or  speaking  to  Antony,  now  came  back  to 
him  with  might  both  pitiless  and  irresistible. 

Mr.  Gervoise  survived  this  hour  many  years,  but  he  never 
forgot  its  horror  and  bitterness.  The  only  chastisement  that  he 
could  feel  had  reached  him.  It  would  have  been  hard  to  have 
been  disgraced,  but  Mr.  Gervoise  could  have  borne  it.  He  had 
no  sociable  links  with  his  kind,  no  loves,  no  friendships ;  his 
conscience  was  callous,  his  heart  was  of  adamant ;  scorn,  hatred, 


BEATEICE.  499 

and  aversion  left  him  as  cold  and  unmoved  as  the  graves  of  his 
victims.  Only  one  thing  could  he  feel :  Poverty.  That  grim 
goddess  was  his  only  conscience,  and  she  had  come  to  him  at 
last.  His  whole  life  long  he  had  lived  upon  others,  and  now  he 
was  cast  upon  his  own  resources,  and  what  were  these  to  all  he 
lost? 

Rosy  was  dead,  and,  just  retribution,  with  the  innocent  vic- 
tim died  the  bad  man's  power.  With  her  died  the  wealth,  the 
consequence,  the  luxurious  life,  the  sensual  enjoyments  of  Car- 
noosie.  If  these  had  been  wrapt  in  her  shroud  and  nailed  down 
with  her  in  her  coffin,  they  could  not  have  been  more  surely  lost 
than  they  were  to  the  man  whose  short-sighted  cruelty  had 
helped  to  send  her  to  an  early  grave. 

Mr.  Gervoise  vvas  not  a  youug  man.  Indulgence  had  lately 
impaired  a  constitution  of  iron ;  he  had  for  the  last  half  hour 
suffered  fearfully,  and  kept  down  that  suffering  with  unflinching 
but  dangerous  fortitude.  Now  the  reaction  came,  strong  and 
perilous.  He  felt  the  blood  rushing  up  to  his  brain,  there  was  a 
sound  in  his  ears  as  of  mighty  torrents,  and  a  dull  pale  mist  crept 
before  his  eyes.  He  uttered  a  cry,  and  another  terror  than  that 
of  losing  Carnoosie  seized  him.  Life  itself  was  going  from  him 
like  the  shore  from  the  drowning  man.  With  frantic  haste  he 
rang  the  bell  at  his  hand, 

"  Panel !  "  he  gasped,  as  two  servants  came  rushing  at  his 
call—"  Panel !— bleed  me  !— Panel ! " 

His  face  was  purple,  his  eyes  were  starting,  his  utterance 
was  thick,  his  hands  beckoned  and  moved  convulsively  ;  but  if 
terror  added  to  these  symptoms,  and  increased  the  danger,  that 
intense  love  of  self  which  was  Mr.  Gervoise's  attribute  now 
helped  to  save  his  life.  Before  five  minutes  had  passed,  M. 
Panel  stood  by  his  master,  and  taking  out  his  lancet  bled  him 
with  professional  skill  and  coolness.  The  blood  flowed  freely 
from  Mr.  Gervoise's  bare  arm,  and,  as  it  flowed,  Mr.  Gervoise 
gradually  revived.  Once  more  the  grim  monster  apoplexy  was 
kept  at  bay,  and  an  ill-spent  life  was  rescued  from  the  very  jaws 
of  death. 

When  Mr.  Gervoise  spoke,  he  asked  for  the  doctor  who  had 
succeeded  to  Doctor  Rogerson's  practice  to  be  sent  for  ;  then  he 
requested  to  be  taken  up  to  his  room.  When  he  was  safe  in 
bed,  his  third  injunction  was  that  one  should  come  near  him. 

"  If  you  want  to  keep  your  places,"  he  said,  looking  at  the 
two  servants,  "  let  no  one  come  near  me.  Least  of  all,  my  son. 
Keep  him  away,  lock  the  door,  push  him  back — do  any  thing ; 
it  is  as  much  as  my  life  is  worth  to  see  any  one  now." 


CHAPTER  LXI. 

The  medical  man  merely  recommended  repose.  But  this 
injunction  Mr.  Gervoise  so  literally  obeyed,  that  for  twenty-four 
hours  he  would  neither  hear,  nor  speak,  nor  stir,  but  lay  care- 
fully tucked  up  in  his  bed,  his  nightcap  drawn  down,  his  lids 
closed,  his  bed-clothes  up  to  his  chin,  his  room  darkened  and 
silent.  From  this  absolute  rest  Mr.  Gervoise  was  roused  the 
second  morning  that  followed  Mr.  Didson's  visit,  by  a  sharp 
feeling  of  hunger.  He  had  only  taken  a  few  refreshing  drinks 
since  his  attack,  and  though  they  were  cooling,  they  were  not 
nourishing. 

"  I  think  some  tapioca  would  do  me  good,"  said  Mr.  Ger- 
voise to  the  servant  who  never  left  him ;  "  yes,  James,  I  feel 
equal  to  tapioca." 

When  the  tapioca  was  despatched,  Mr.  Gervoise  felt  equal  to 
getting  up,  and  when  he  was  up  and  dressed,  he  felt  equal  to 
knowing  what  had  taken  place  during  his  illness,  as  he  called  it. 
Two  facts  he  learned :  that  Mr.  Didson  had  called  on  Antony, 
and  that  this  legal  gentleman  was  still  at  the  "  George."  On 
hearing  this,  the  kind  father  felt  equal  to  seeing  his  son,  and  im- 
mediately sent  for  him. 

Antony  came,  sullen,  downcast,  and  half  intoxicated.  Now, 
Mr.  Gervoise  held  the  medium  stage  of  Antony's  complaint  a 
dangCFOus  one  ;  for  he  contended  that  when  a  man  had  not  drunk 
enough  to  lose  his  senses,  he  had  generally  drunk  enough  to  be 
mischievous.  With  the  tenderest  caution,  therefore,  he  touched 
on  the  sensitive  point  concerning  which  he  wished  to  acquire  in- 
formation. 

"  I  have  been  dreadfully  ill,"  he  said  plaintively,  "  dreadfully 
ill.  I  hope  Mr.  Didson  has  not  called  whilst  I  was  unable  to 
assist  you  with  my  advice,  Antony  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he  has,"  replied  Antony,  sulkily. 

"  I  hope  you  were  prudent,  my  dear  boy?  " 

No  reply. 


BEAtRICE.  501 

*'  Did — did  he  question  you?" 

"  No." 

"  Had  he  any  new  information  to  give  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Did  he  mention  a  will?" 

«  No." 

"  Did  you  allude  to — to  the  deed?" 

"  No,"  said  Antony  again  ;  but  this  time,  whether  provoked 
by  his  father's  questions,  or  irritated  at  the  mention  of  the  deed, 
he  uttered  the  monosyllable  rather  fiercely. 

"  Well,  my  dear  boy,"  said  Mr.  Gervoise  with  a  sigh,  "  what 
have  you  resolved  on  doing?  " 

Antony  gave  his  father  a  knowing  look,  a  look  that  said, 
"You  want  to  find  out,  do  you?  "  But  this  look  was  the  only 
answer  he  condescended  to  bestow  on  his  parent.  It  was  plain 
he  had  some  plan  of  his  own,  but  what  that  plan  was  Mr.  Ger- 
voise could  not  imagine. 

Antony's  intellect  was  of  the  blunt  and  narrow  order ;  any 
thing  like  a  shrewd  and  ingenious  conception  was  beyond  it. 
Still  he  was  cunning  enough  to  fashion  some  foolish  and  disas- 
trous scheme,  that  would  not  merely  complete  his  own  undoing — 
this  was  already  certain — ^but  his  father's  too.  Now,  Mr.  Ger- 
voise's  plan,  which  had  been  matured  during  the  repose  of  the 
last  twenty-four  hours,  was  beautifully  simple  :  he  would  try  and 
induce  Antony  to  give  up  and  leave  Carnoosie  quietly ;  he  would 
accompany  him  to  London,  leave  him  there,  and  return  to  Car- 
noosie, thence  to  make  terms  with  Gilbert.  Part  of  his  plan  he 
unfolded  to  his  son. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  he  said  with  a  deep  sigh,  "  resistance  is 
useless.  Carnoosie  is  lost.  If  I  saw  a  chance  of  keeping  it,  I 
would  tell  you  to  resist  to  the  last ;  but  I  see  none.  Let  us 
therefore  withdraw  with  dignity.  My  advice  is,  that  we  go  to 
London  at  once." 

Mr.  Gervoise  expected  some  violence,  some  cursing  and 
swearing  at  least ;  but  though  Antony  heard  him  moodily,  he 
also  heard  him  silently.  It  was  plain  that  Mr.  Didson  had  con- 
vinced him  of  the  uselessness  of  resistance,  and  done  Mr.  Ger- 
voise at  least  that  good  service. 

"  What  shall  we  do  in  London?  "  asked  Antony,  after  a  sulky 
pause. 

"  My  dear  boy,  I  am  afraid  you  have  been  rather  extrava- 
gant ;  but  though  my  means  are  small,  I  have  a  father's  heart. 
Besides,  though  Carnoosie  is  lost,  you  are  young  and  good-look- 


502  BEATRICE. 

ing.   You  can  marry  again.    Miss  Jameson  mentioned  an  heiress, 
a  young  lady  of  thirty-three " 

*'  An  old  woman/'  interrupted  Antony,  looking  disgusted. 

"  I  am  amazed  at  you  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Gervoise.  "  Why, 
a  woman  of  thirty-three  is  quite  a  girl.  Besides,  this  is  a  city 
heiress,  with  her  fortune  in  ready  money." 

Antony's  knitted  brows  smoothed  considerably. 

"  I  think  we  had  better  go  to-day,"  pursued  Mr.  Gervoise. 

"  Not  to-day,"  said  Antony  decisively. 

"Why  so?"  I 

"  Because  I  will  not." 

"  Well,  my  dear  boy,  when  you  please,"  said  his  father 
soothingly.     "  Shall  it  be  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  No — ^not  to-morrow." 

"  Antony,  do  you  wish  to  stay  here  until  your  brother  and  his 
wife  come  and  take  possession,  and  turn  us  out?" 

Antony  gave  him  another  look,  a  look  of  which  Mr.  Gervoise 
could  not  fathom  the  meaning. 

"  When  shall  we  go  ?  "  he  asked  a  little  uneasily.  "  Only  tell 
me,  Antony." 

"  To-night,"  was  Antony's  unexpected  reply. 

To-night  suited  Mr.  Gervoise  admirably,  for  he  could  be 
back  before  morning,  and  Mr.  Didson  be  none  the  wiser. 

"  Very  well,  then,  to-night  let  it  be,"  he  said  a  little  eagerly. 
"  Have  you  been  getting  ready?  " 

Antony  nodded. 
Mr.  Gervoise  sighed. 

"I  possess  so  little,"  he  said  feelingly;  "  my  share  in  this 
world's  goods  is  so  small,  that  a  few  hours  will  answer  my  pur- 
pose." 

There  was  truth  iu  this,  for  through  the  course  of  his  long 
life  Mr.  Gervoise  had  maijaged  to  possess  very  little,  as  he  said, 
and  to  enjoy,  though  he  forgot  to  add  that,  the  possession  of 
others. 

"  Mind  you  do  not  leave  any  of  your  bonds  and  deeds  be- 
hind," sneered  Antony. 

"  Deeds — bonds — what  bonds  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Gervoise,  amazed. 

"  Securities  and  mortgages,  you  know,"  pursued  his  son. 

This  broad  allusion  to  the  usurious,  or  at  least  money-lending, 
practices  in  which  Mr.  Gervoise  was  supposed  to  indulge,  seemed 
to  offend  that  gentleman  deeply. 

*'  Antony,"  he  remarked,  with  austere  suavity  of  manner,  "  I 
advise  you  not  to  make  yourself  the  echo  of  my  slanderers.     My 


beAteice.  503 

long  prosperity  has  given  me  some  enemies — do  not  join -them, 
Antony." 

"  Well,  but  do  not  leave  the  deeds  behind,"  persisted  Antony  ; 
"  you  would  not  like  Beatrice  to  find  them." 

"  I  have  no  deeds,"  severely  said  Mr.  Gervoise  ;  "  I  never 
take  mortgages  and  securities — I  never  lend  money  unless  to  you, 
Antony." 

Antony  laughed  with  drunken  insolence,  and  thrusting  his 
hands  into  his  pockets,  Avalked  out  of  the  room  whistling. 

"  I  must  be  on  my  guard  against  that  boy,"  thought  Mr. 
Gervoise  ;"  he  is  up  to  mischief — does  he  want  to  rob  me?" 

He  listened  to  Antony's  heavy  step  going  down,  then  he 
stealthily  locked  the  door ;  so  cautious  was  he  about  it,  that  a 
timorous  mouse  would  scarcely  have  heard  the  turning  of  the  key 
in  the  lock.  When  this  was  done,  Mr.  Gervoise  stepped  across 
the  floor  on  tiptoe,  took  a  key  from  beneath  his  pillow  and  cau- 
tiously unlocked  a  large  cabinet  which  stood  near  his  bed.  Linen 
smelling  sweetly  of  lavender,  seemed  its  only  contents,  but  Mr. 
Gervoise  touched  a  spring,  a  shelf  flew  back  and  disclosed  a 
square  iron  chest,  which  he  looked  at  with  a  meditative  and  anx- 
ious eye.  What  should  he  do  with  it?  Take  it  away  with  him? 
It  was  a  heavy  chest ;  suppose  Antony  should  take  a  fancy  to  try 
the  weight  of  his  trunk,  he  would  detect  its  presence  at  once,  and 
was  quite  capable  of  breaking  it  open  for  the  sake  of  its  con- 
tents. The  same  temptation  might  assail  a  dishonest  railway 
servant,  and  then  where  was  his  redress  ?  With  a  perplexed 
glance  Mr.  Gervoise  looked  at  that  grim  square  box,  which  held 
the  fortunes  of  many,  the  honour  of  some,  the  peace  of  all.  He 
thought  of  burying  it  in  the  garden,  of  hiding  it  in  the  cellar ; 
and  then  he  came  back  to  the  more  practical  and  prudent  plan 
of  leaving  it  where  it  was.  Surely  it  would  be  safe  for  twelve 
hours,  though  no  longer  under  its  master's  vigilant  eye?  Surely 
those  bonds,  and  deeds,  and  securities,  to  which  Antony  had  so 
imprudently  alluded,  could  lie  there  undetected  even  in  his  ab- 
sence ?  Mr.  Gervoise  closed  and  locked  the  cabinet  once  more, 
unlocked  the  door,  and  left  his  room  with  stealthy  steps.  It  was 
his  habit  to  watch  whenever  he  could  do  so,  and  now  Mr.  Ger- 
voise felt  inclined  to  watch  his  son.  He  was  afraid  of  him  :  his 
submission  to  so  sudden  a  loss  as  that  of  Carnoosie  was  ominous. 
It  meant  something,  but  what  ?  The  day  passed,  Mr.  Gervoise 
could  discover  nothing.  Antony  had  vanished,  Mr.  Didson  did 
not  come  near  the  place,  no  one  called  even  on  the  most  trifling 
business,  and  Carnoosie  seemed  unusually  silent  on  this  clear 


504:  BEATEICE. 

frosty  day.  Mr.  Grervoise  prowled  about  the  house,  peeped  in 
the  rooms,  hovered  like  any  uneasy  spirit  near  his  own,  and  saw 
and  discovered,  and  even  suspected  nothing.  No,  all  was  right ; 
but  why  did  Antony  stay  out?  Did  he  mean  to  give  him  the 
slip,  or  not  to  return  and  fulfil  his  promise  of  going  that  evening? 
Mr.  Gervoise  had  ordered  an  early  dinner,  and  to  his  great  mor- 
tification he  sat  down  to  it  alone.  Antony's  absence  put  an 
abrupt  end  to  all  his  schemes.  He  could  not  go  and  leave  him 
behind,  and  to  stay  with  him  and  wait  for  Gilbert  and  Beatrice 
to  come  and  to  act,  was  ruin. 

Gilbert  might  find  it  hard  to  tarn  out  his  father,  but  quite 
easy  to  turn  out  a  brother  whom  he  neither  loved  nor  respected. 
What  matter  that  Mr.  Gervoise  was  in  Carnoosie ;  so  long  as 
Antony  remained  he  was  principal,  and  Mr.  Gervoise  was 
invisible. 

"  If  I  could  only  know  where  he  is,"  thought  Mr.  Gervoise, 
putting  down  his  knife  and  fork ;  but  Antony's  haunts  were 
varied ;  public-houses,  cottages,  where  virtue  did  not  always 
abide,  low  sporting  clubs  and  assemblies,  were  equally  favoured 
with  his  presence. 

"  That  boy  will  ruin  me,"  thought  his  father  ;  and,  even  as 
he  thought  so,  the  door  opened  and  Antony  entered  the  dining- 
room. 

He  was  very  much  flushed ;  he  had  been  drinking,  but  he 
was  again  in  that  medium  stage  which  his  father  held  dangerous. 
So,  very  gently  and  cautiously,  he  said : 

"  I  ordered  an  early  dinner,  Antony." 

"  Oh  !  I  have  dined,"  replied  Antony. 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it.     At  what  hour  do  we  leave?" 

Antony  did  not  answer  at  once.  He  seemed  to  be  thinking 
over  his  father's  question. 

"  Why  should  we  not  go  now?"  he  asked  at  length  ;  "  it  will 
be  night  in  an  hour." 

'•  My  dear  boy,"  replied  his  father,  "  I  am  quite  willing,  I 
assure  you." 

"  Perhaps  you  would  rather  stay,"  said  Antony,  with  un- 
wonted deference. 

"  Not  at  all.  I  have  done  dinner,  and  you  have  dined ;  let 
us  have  this  painful  affair  over  as  quickly  as  possible." 

Mr.  Gervoise  spoke  with  evident  alacrity.  Antony  heard 
him  with  a  grim  smile,  and  kept  looking  at  the  broad  oaken 
beams  and  at  the  polished  oaken  panelling  of  the  dining-room. 

"  You  will  not  get  such  a  dining-room  as  this  in  a  hurry," 


BEATEICE.  505 

he  said ;  "  and  the  pictures,  you  will  not  have  the  like  of  them 
again ;  and  the  plate,  and  the  old  furniture,  and  the  wines,  the 
Chateau  Margaux,  and  the  Clos  Vongeot — it  is  hard  to  leave 
them  ;  there  is  champagne,  too — but  you  do  not  care  about  white 
wines." 

"  My  dear  boy,  you  do  not  do  me  justice.  I  value  all  these 
things  ;  but  in  what  comparison  do  they  stand  with  your  welfare  ? 
It  is  your  loss  that  cuts  me,  Antony." 

Antony  laughed  drearily  and  recklessly. 

"  Beatrice  is  welcome  to  them,"  he  said  bitterly ;  "let  her 
have  them,  and  leave  them  to  her  children,  and  much  good  may 
they  do  her  and  them." 

There  was  a  wicked  light  in  Antony's  blue  eyes,  which 
alarmed  his  father.  He  hastily  rose  from  his  chair,  and  spoke 
of  getting  ready ;  but  Antony,  sullenly  replying  that  he  was 
ready,  walked  out  of  the  room,  and  left  to  Mr.  Gervoise  what 
still  remained  to  be  done. 
22 


CHAPTER  LXII. 

Where  there  is  a  will  there  is  a  way.  It  was  stiU  broad 
daylight  when  Mr.  Gervoise  and  his  son  drove  out  of  Camoosie. 
Mr.  Gervoise  breathed  a  relieved  sigh  as  the  gates  closed  upon 
them.  He  had  never  expected  to  get  Antony  away  so  easily,  and, 
now  that  it  was  done,  what  remained  seemed  as  nothing.  He 
gave  his  son  a  furtive  and  half-wondering  look.  Antony  leaned 
back  in  the  carriage,  his  arms  folded,  his  hat  drawn  down  over 
his  eyes.  He  was  smiling  and  muttering  to  himself;  but  he 
suddenly  seemed  conscious  of  his  father's  gaze,  for  he  ceased, 
became  grave  and  gloomy,  and,  to  Mr.  Gervoise's  alarm,  pulled 
the  check  string. 

"What  is  that  for?"  asked  his  father. 

"  I  am  going  down,"  was  Antony's  laconic  reply ;  "  I  like 
walking  best." 

He  alighted  as  he  spoke,  and  stood  looking  sharply  around 
him,  and  in  either  direction  of  the  solitary  road.  This  strange 
and  sudden  resolve  boded  no  good,  but  Mr.  Gervoise  looked 
cheerful,  and  said  briskly, 

"  You  are  quite  right,  my  dear  boy,  and  I  think  I  shall  walk 
too.     The  forest  is  beautiful." 

He  got  down  as  he  spoke.  Antony  gave  him  an  odd  look, 
but  raised  no  objection. 

"  Drive  on»  our  luggage  to  the  station,"  said  Mr.  Gervoise, 
addressing  the  coachman ;  "  my  son  and  I  are  going  to  take  the 
short  cut." 

The  servant  touched  his  hat  and  drove  on. 

Mr.  Gervoise  and  his  son  entered  the  dark  ridge  of  trees 
which  skirted  the  road.  The  forest  looked  very  beautiful,  as 
Mr.  Gervoise  had  said ;  the  evening  was  clear,  though  cold  and 
wintry,  and  the  bare  branches  of  the  mighty  trees  stood  out  finely 
pencilled  on  a  pale  sky.  The  crisp  earth,  hoar  with  frost,  crackled 
beneath  their  feet  as  they  walked  along,  and  Antony,  regardless 
of  his  father's  shorter  breath,  walked  fast ;  but  Mr.  Gervoise  did 


BEATRICE.      .  507 

not  remonstrate — to  his  infinite  comfort  they  were  walking  away 
from  Carnoosie  at  the  rate  of  five  miles  an  hom*,  and  every  step 
relieved  him  from  a  load  of  care.  At  length,  however,  he  got 
exhausted,  and  feeling  pretty  sure  that  all  danger  was  over,  he 
began  to  rebel. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  walking  at  that  rate,  Antony?"  he 
asked  indignantly. 

Antony  did  not  answer.  They  had  reached  the  knoll  where 
the  trees  opened,  and  whence,  at  the  end  of  a  long  avenue,  you 
could  on  fine  summer  evenings  see  the  windows  of  old  Carnoosie 
all  in  a  flame  with  the  setting  sun.  Antony  climbed  to  the  top 
of  the  knoll,  shaded  his  eyes,  and  looked  long  and  earnestly  at 
the  house  they  had  left.  But  the  spot  was  cold  and  dreary,  night 
was  coming  on,  and  Mr.  Gervoise  wished  to  walk  slowly,  not  to 
stand  still  with  the  frosty  air  about  him. 

"  Come  on,  Antony,"  he  said  shivering. 

A  low  laugh  was  Antony's  reply. 

"  Look  !"  he  said,  and  he  pointed  to  Carnoosie. 

Mr.  Gervoise  saw  the  house  rising  a  dark  square  mass  against 
the  grey  sky  half  a  mile  off*,  but  he  saw  nothing  else. 

"I  told  you  I  would!"  said  Antony,  exultingly ;  "I  told 
you  I  would  ! " 

"Antony,  what  is  it?"  cried  his  father,  and  fear  crept  like 
ice  through  his  very  marrow. 

"  I  told  you  I  would,"  said  Antony,  nodding. 

His  blue  eyes  gleamed  with  wicked  triumph,  his  handsome 
but  cruel  mouth  had  nervous  twitchings,  he  looked  like  one  who 
has  flung  all  behind  him ;  shame,  pity,  honour— all  that  is  dear 
to  man. 

"  But  what  have  you  done,  Antony?"  entreated  his  father, 
distracted  with  a  nameless  terror.     "  What  have  you  done?" 

Antony  laughed  loud,  thrtist  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  and 
looked  straight  before  him.  Mr.  Gervoise  looked  too.  He  saw 
a  dull  redness  in  the  sky,  then  a  tongue  of  flame  darting  up  like 
a  fiery  serpent  from  behind  Carnoosie,  then  a  lull,  then  a  broad 
great  blaze  and  a  glare  that  spread  from  east  to  west. 

''There  goes  Carnoosie!"  shouted  Antony.  "  Let  her  and 
Gilbert  come  to  Carnoosie  now — let  them  ! " 

The  excess  of  his  despair  seemed  to  stun  Mr.  Gervoise.  He 
stood  staring  at  that  house,  with  the  flames  now  darting  from 
every  one  of  its  windows,  and  he  neither  spoke  nor  stirred.  He 
thought  of  the  iron  chest  and  its  contents,  the  ill-got  gains  of  an 
ill-spent  life ;   he  thought  of  that  noble  home  whence  he  had 


608  .      BEATRICE. 

banished  so  many,  and  wMcli  was  now  crumbling  to  asbes  before 
his  very  eyes — and  he  felt  conquered.  Plans,  schemes  cunning 
and  sure,  hopes,  sensual  joys,  money,  triumph  oyer  his  enemies, 
were  all  perishing  in  that  vast  blaze  which  lit  the  whole  country 
round,  and  sent  its  flickering  glow  to  the  lonely  spot  in  the  forest 
where  he  and  Antony  stood. 

"There  goes  Carnoosie!"  shouted  Antony,  with  wild  glee. 
"  Hurrah  !  here's  a  health  to  Carnoosie  ! " 

He  took  a  bottle  from  his  pocket,  raised  it  to  his  lips,  and 
drained  its  contents. 

"  You  wretch  !  "  cried  his  father,  snatching  the  bottle  from 
him  and  dashing  it  to  the  earth.  "  You  wretch  !  do  you  know 
what  you  have  done  ?  All  I  had,  every  farthing,  is  in  that  burn- 
ing house ! " 

"So  you  meant  to  go  back  to  Carnoosie  ?  "  said  Antony,  look- 
ing at  him  askance.  "  You  meant  to  go  back  without  me.  I 
told  you  to  bring  your  deeds  and  bonds  and  securities  ;  but  you 
wanted  to  cheat  me.  I  was  up  to  you  all,  though  you  were  all 
in  a  plot  against  me.  It  was  in  your  room  I  lit  the  fire  ! "  added 
Antony,  triumphantly. 

Terror,  deep,  selfish,  and  intense,  entered  Mr.  Gervoise's 
heart  as  he  heard  him.  The  fire  had  been  lit  in  his  room ;  to 
him  would  be  laid  the  crime. 

"  You  abandoned  wretch  ! "  he  cried,  turning  on  his  son  with 
mingled  fury  and  despair,  "  how  did  you  dare  to  do  it?" 

A  laugh  was  Antony's  reply. 

"  I  wash  my  hands  of  you,"  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  shrinking 
back  from  him,  and  seeming  to  put  him  away  with  his  hands. 
"  Go  your  way,  as  I  go  mine." 

"  All  right ! "  replied  Antonyj  sitting  down  on  a  bank,  whilst 
his  father  hastily  struck  into  the  nearest  path. 

The  thought  that  he  would  assuredly  be  suspected  of  Antony's 
deed  nearly  distracted  Mr.  Gervoise,  and  made  him  forget  his 
other  troubles.  He  walked  on  through  the  forest,  hearing  Anto- 
ny's shouts  and  drunken  singing  growing  more  and  more  faint, 
and  hurrying  on  toward  Carnoosie.  He  did  not  see  the  old 
house  until  he  emerged  from  the  forest  on  the  road,  and  then  it 
stood  before  him  a  lurid  mass  of  flames  from  the  basement  to 
the  chimney  stacks.  So  scorching  was  their  heat,  that  the  last 
trees  of  the  avenue  were  already  charred  and  black,  but  those 
near  the  entrance  gates  were  still  safe,  and  would  remain  so. 
The  house,  and  the  house  only,  would  be  burned  down. 

The  village  of  Carnoosie  had  turned  out ;  an  old  fire-engine 


BEATEICE.  609 

•had  been  brought  to  the  scene  of  the  disaster,  but  for  some  reason 
or  other  it  was  not  playing,  Mr.  Gervoise  passed  through  the 
crowd,  which  made  way  for  him,  until  he  reached  the  gate-keep- 
er's lodge.  At  the  door  he  found  Mr.  Didson  standing  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  and  looking  at  the  conflagration  with  much 
composure.  He  gave  Mr.  Gervoise  a  keen,  searching  look,  but 
took  no  other  notice  of  him. 

"  This  is  a  great  calamity,"  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  approaching 
him,  and  putting  on  a  bold  front. 

"  Very,"  drily  replied  Mr.  Didson.  "  I  suppose  you  know 
where  the  fire  began  ?  " 

Mr.  Gervoise  tried  to  speak,  but  his  tongue  clove  to  the  roof 
of  his  mouth. 

"  No  lives  lost ! "  resumed  Mr.  Didson  ;  "  and  though  the  fire 
broke  out  in  so  many  places  at  once,  we  could  save  the  plate  and 
the  pictures." 

"  Mr.  Didson,"  said  Mr.  Gervoise,  with  trembling  eagerness, 
"  the  fire  broke  out  after  I  left — ^the  servants  can  say  it  broke  out 
after  I  left!"  ^  .     ^  ^ 

"  Oh !  no  one  is  accusing  you,  Mr.  Gervoise,"  said  Mr.  Did- 
son, with  a  smile. 

"  I  have  enemies,  sir,"  resumed  Mr.  Gervoise,  still  eager  and 
troubled.  "  I  leave  this  house  under  peculiar  circumstances,  and 
those  enemies  might  take  advantage  of  the  fact  to  slander  me." 

Habit  is  surely  a  strange  thing.  So  little  was  this  man  ac- 
customed to  innocence,  that  he  knew  not  how  to  carry  it.  The 
merited  accusation  would  have  found  him  cool,  wary,  and  well- 
prepared  ;  the  undeserved  suspicion  made  him  blunder  and  lose  all 
presence  of  mind. 

"  If  I  were  you,"  coolly  said  Mr.  Didson,  "  I  would  not  fore- 
stall accusation  ;  at  the  same  time,  this  house  is  certainly  burning 
down  under  some  unfortunate  circumstance.  The  pipes  being 
frozen,  we  did  not  expect  much  water,  still  we  tried  them,  and 
we  found — guess,  now,  Mr.  Gervoise  ?  " 

"  I — I  don't  know,"  faltered  the  wretched  man. 

Mr.  Didson  laid  his  hand  on  Mr.  Gervoise's  shoulder  and 
looked  at  him. 

"  We  found,  sir,  that  all  the  pipes  had  been  destroyed,  so 
that,  even  if  a  sudden  thaw  had  set  in,  we  could  not  have  got  any 
thing  like  a  supply  of  water.     Strange,  eh?  " 

Mr.  Gervoise  could  not  answer ;  he  could  have  groaned  in 
his  anguish.  This  was  how  Antony  did  his  work.  The  perspi- 
ration stood  in  thick  drops  on  his  forehead.     There  were  buzzing 


510  BEATRICE. 

sounds  in  his  ears  like  so  many  summer  flies.  Ruin,  punishment,' 
and  disgrace  hung  over  him.  For  a  moment  he  cherished  the 
base  thought  of  betraying  Antony,  but  shame  and  fear,  not  truth, 
held  him  back.  Mr.  Didson  gave  him  a  cool  look  and  walked 
away  ;  but  Mr.  Gervoise  followed  him  with  servile  fear,  clinging 
to  his  side,  though  unbidden,  moving  when  he  moved,  standing 
when  he  stood,  until  Mr.  Didson,  wearied  and  rather  bored, 
hinted  pretty  broadly  that  his  presence  was  not  wanted ;  and 
with  this  polite  intimation  he  turned  his  back  on  Mr.  Gervoise, 
who  slunk  away,  mute,  enraged,  and  especially  afraid.  Still  he 
did  not  leave  the  place.  A  fascination  of  mingled  grief  and  ter- 
ror kept  him  there  ;  mingling  among  the  domestics,  who  had  so 
recently  been  his,  and  who  now,  aware,  as  they  already  were,  of 
his  change  of  fortunes,  scarcely  minded  him,  looking  at  the  burn- 
ing house  where  he  had  plotted,  cheated,  and  plundered  so  long, 
and  which  by  an  avenging  Nemesis  had  now  become  the  funeral 
pyre  of  his  all ;  and,  above  all,  watching  that  little  attorney,  who 
was  more  terrible  in  his  eyes  than  an  armed  host,  for  on  him  and 
on  his  testimony  hung  all  the  w^retched  man  could  stiU  call  his — 
safety  and  liberty. 

That  feeling  of  fear  became  one  of  desperation,  when  Mr. 
Gervoise  saw  a  sinister  figure  in  black  move  out  from  the  crowd 
and  seek  Mr.  Didson.  He  recognized  Mrs.  Scot.  He  knew 
how  she  hated  him  ;  he  knew  she  had  remained  near  Carnoosie 
to  brood  over  her  revenge  ;  and  he  knew  that  she  was  not  the 
woman  to  shrink  from  a  lie,  if  it  would  serve  her  purpose. 
Stealthily  he  watched  the  pair.  With  iron  coldness  Mrs.  Scot 
talked,  and  coolly  Mr.  Didson  listened  ;  finally,  the  attorney  took 
out  his  pocket-book  and  wrote  down  something.  Mr.  Gervoise 
could  look  on  no  longer.  He  walked  away.  What  had  she  told 
the  lawyer,  what  had  he  written  down  ?  Something  that  would 
complete  his  ruin. 

He  went  on  to  the  village.  He  entered  the  inn,  and  asked 
for  something  to  eat ;  but  when  some  cold  chicken  and  ham  were 
placed  before  him,  Mr.  Gervoise  felt  he  could  touch  nothing,  and 
requested  a  room  to  be  prepared  for  him.  He  was  shown  to  one 
on  the  first  floor  :  a  small,  cold  room,  with  a  dreary-looking  tent 
bed,  hung  with  dingy  chintz  curtains.  Mr.  Gervoise  went  to 
bed,  but  he  could  not  sleep  for  hours.  He  was  ruined  and  un- 
done, and  the  weight  of  his  troubles  was  too  much  for  the  man. 
At  length  he  sank  into  feverish  slumbers,  only  to  be  haunted  by 
dreams  more  fearful  than  the  waking  reality.  Amongst  these 
visions  two  came  back  aorain  and  aorain.     In  one  Mr.  Gervoise 


BEATEICE.  611 

saw  "himself  setting  fire  to  the  window  curtains  of  his  room  ;  and 
as  the  flames  flared  up,  and  the  candle  was  still  in  his  hand,  he 
felt  seized  from  behind,  and  Mr.  Didson's  irouical  voice  said  : 

"•  Caught  in  the  act,  Mr.  Gervoise  !  you  can't  deny  it — caught 
in  the  act !  ** 

From  this  tormenting  dream  Mr.  Gervoise  wakened  to  fall 
into  another  more  frightful  still.  He  stood  for  his  trial,  his 
counsel  had  been  heard,  and  the  foreman  of  the  jury  delivered 
the  verdict :  "  Guilty."  Then  the  judge  put  on  his  black  cap,  as 
if  he  were  going  to  pronounce  sentence  of  death,  and  in  a  loud 
and  distinct  voice  he  said  : 

"  Antony  Gervoise,  you  have  been  convicted  on  the  clearest' 
evidence  of  the  awful  crime  of  arson  ;  for  this  crime  you  are  now 
going  to  suffer  the  extreme  penalty  of  the  law " 

"  I  did  not  do  it ! — I  did  not  do  it !"  gasped  Mr.  Gervoise  ; 
and  awakening,  he  sat  up  in  his  bed  and  saw  the  morning  sun 
shining  in  his  room,  and  the  landlord  of  the  "  George"  standing 
at  the  door,  and  thence  looking  at  him  with  a  pale  and  frightened 
face. 

"  Please,  sir — ^"  he  stammered. 

Mr.  Gervoise  felt  all  the  terrors  of  death  upon  him.  The 
police  were  below,  he  was  suspected,  he  would  l)e  apprehended, 
tried,  and  sentenced,  not  to  death  as  in  his  dream,  but  to  worse 
than  death — a  felon's  fate  ! 

"  What  is  it?"  he  gasped,  for  his  lips  felt  parched  and  dry. 

"  Mr.  Antony  Gervoise,"  began  the  landlord. 

It  was  his  son,  then,  who  was  taken.  Mr.  Gervoise  was  too 
selfish  not  to  feel  relieved. 

"  Well,  what  about  him?"  he  asked,  more  composedly. 

"  He  has  been  found,  sir." 

Another  misfortune  dawned  over  Mr.  Gervoise's  mind. 

Found  !  where  and  how  had  his  son  been  found  ? 

The  landlord's  reply  came  hesitating  and  slow,  but  clear,  and 
Mr.  Gervoise  fell  back  with  a  groan.  He  was  a  bad  and  cruel 
man,  but  that  something  of  humanity  which  rarely  leaves  the 
heart  spoke  to  him  then. 

Dead! 

Yes,  Antony  Gervoise  had  been  found  dead  in  the  forest. 
He  had  been  found  lying  on  his  back,  his  arms  stretched  out,  his 
calm  face  looking  up  at  the  cold  winter  sky.  No  token  of  wrath, 
or  revenge,  or  unholy  violence  was  upon  him.  No  man's  hand 
had  been  raised'  against  him ;  but  the  hand  of  the  chastener  had 


612  BEATRICE. 

struck  him  down  in  the  evil  might  of  his  youth,  and  before  the 
cool  perfidy  of  age  had  utterly  defiled  the  image  of  his  Maker. 

Thus  perished  the  only  being  Mr.  Gervoise  had  ever  loved  ; 
thus  the  link  which  bound  him  to  his  kind  was  broken,  and  he 
remained  a  miserable  old  man,  with  more  than  enough  to  live 
upon,  but  with  nothing  for  luxury  or  sensual  enjoyment ;  far  be- 
yond actual  want,  but  poorer  by  his  unsated  greed,  and  envious 
and  feverish  regret,  than  many  a  starving  wretch. 

The  world's  verdict  on  Mr.  Gervoise  was  like  that  of  a 
Scotch  jury ;  Not  proven.  It  is  not  proven  that  he  set  fire  to 
Carnoosie,  that  he  sent  men  and  women  to  premature  graves, 
that  his  whole  life  was  one  of  stealthy  iniquities,  but  who  doubts 
it  ?  Who  has  a  good  word  for  the  fallen  man  ?  The  world  does 
not  vary ;  success  is  its  idol,  failure  its  abomination.  Worse 
men  than  Mr.  Gervoise  have  not  had  their  iniquities  visited  so 
severely.  Murderers,  poisoners,  escape  detection  ;  dark  sinners 
die  like  good  men,  and  leave  fair  names  behind  them  inscribed  on 
honourable  tombstones  ;  but  in  Mr.  Gervoise's  case  failure  settled 
the  question.  His  whole  life  was  raked  up,  and  not  one  of  its 
sins  escaped  detection  ;  and  whereas  formerly  the  evil  he  did  was 
not  credited,  now  deeds  that  he  never  thought  of  are  laid  to  his 
door.  Let  it  be  !  Let  him  who  was  pitiless  to  others  find  others 
pitiless  to  him  ;  let  retribution  come,  tardy  but  sure.  Above  all, 
deep  in  his  heart,  let  there  be  a  gnawing  thought.  Antony  would 
be  living  yet,  but  for  you.  If  you  had  not  pampered  him  in  his 
vices — if  you  had  not  indulged  him  in  his  evil  passions — ^he 
would  not  have  died  a  premature  death.  Remember  it,  think  of 
it  for  ever.  Keep  that  thought,  it  is  yours  ;  too  mild  a  punish- 
ment for  guilt  so  deep. 

It  is  said  of  the  damned  that  they  have  faith  without  love. 
They  believe,  without  the  charity  which  could  raise  them  out  of 
the  dark  abyss  to  the  heavenly  regions.  Even  so  is  the  conscience 
of  the  evil ;  they  know  that  they  are  guilty,  and  that  knowledge 
is  not  akin  to  repentance.  In  that  knowledge  Mr.  Gervoise  lives. 
He  has  no  fear  of  another  world  and  of  its  punishments,  but  he 
is  haunted  in  this  by  his  victims.  Commonplace  or  terrible,  they 
all  rise  before  him  ;  he  defies  them,  he  laughs  at  them,  for  there 
was  ever  a  certain  boldness  in  the  man's  badness  ;  but  whether 
they  wear  Mr.  Raby's  bloated  face,  or  Rosy's  wild  eyes,  or 
Antony's  dead  features,  they  haunt  him — they  go  where  he  goes, 
and  tread  in  his  steps ;  and  their  mark  is  upon  him,  a  mark 
that  deepens  with  years — ^let  it  be  ! 


CHAPTER  LXm. 

In  a  darkened  room,  by  the  bedside  of  her  sick  husband,  sat 
Beatrice.  The  white  curtain  hung  between  him  and  her ;  he 
was  very  quiet,  sleeping  no  doubt  after  his  night  of  fever  and  un- 
rest ;  he  could  not  see  her,  and  she  could  weep  unheard  and  un- 
detected. Her  heart  was  full  to  breaking.  They  had  given  up 
the  cottage  as  too  expensive,  and  removed  to  very  humble  lodg- 
ings ;  and  scarcely  had  they  entered  their  new  home,  when  Gil- 
bert had  fallen  ill  once  more,  this  time  so  severely,  that  hope 
almost  left  Beatrice's  heart.  Bitter  and  heavy  were  her  cares. 
She  had  again  found  some  teaching,  and  this  miserable  resource 
and  the  rent  of  the  house  in  Verville  were  to  be  the  support  of 
the  whole  family.  She  had  been  obliged  to  part  with  Babet,  not 
on  account  of  the  poor  woman's  wages,  which  Babet  would  will- 
ingly have  foregone,  but  because  she  could  not  afford  to  keep 
her.  Babet  wept  bitterly  at  their  separation,  but  she  could  not 
resist  Beatrice's  plainly  spoken  argument,  "  I  am  too  poor, 
Babet,"  and  she  went.  Her  departure  inflicted  on  Gilbert  one 
of  the  keenest  pangs  he,  had  ever  known.  It  was  the  last 
string  in  his  lot  to  feel  that  he  lay  helpless  and  powerless,  a 
burden  on  his  wife,  and  that  she  whom  he  would  have  saved 
from  every  trouble  and  care,  now  led  a  harder  life  than  any 
of  the  servants  in  her  own  Carnoosie. 

Beatrice  thought  little  of  this.  Hard  though  it  was  to  be 
poor,  trying  though  it  was  to  do  household  work,  and  mind  three 
young  children,  and  go  out  and  teach  other  children  whose  happy 
mothers  had  no  time  for  the  task,  there  was  something  harder 
stni :  it  was  the  terrible  thought  that  her  husband  was  very  ill, 
that  if  he  recovered  it  would  only  be  for  a  time,  that  his  health 
was  gone,  and  would  probably  never  return.  It  was  this  which 
Beatrice  could  not  bear,  which  made  her  sigh  and  moan  in  the 
night — which  made  her  cry  out  aloud  wheiT  she  passed  through 
some  solitary  spot  in  Kensington  Gardens  on  her  way  to  her 
lessons,  and  clasp  and  wring  her  hands  in  the  excess  of  her 
22* 


514  BEATEICE. 

grief.  To  her  husband  she  showed  a  bright  and  cheerful  face  ; 
and  when  he  sighed  to  see  her  engaged  in  some  task  beyond 
her  strength,  and,  alas  !  often  beyond  her  knowledge,  she  laughed 
at  him,  and  told  him  it  did  her  good  to  go  back  to  the  ways 
of  her  childhood. 

But  on  this  evening,  sitting  by  him  after  the  day's  toil,  think- 
ing of  the  wasted  face  which  lay  on  the  pillow  behind  that  cur- 
tain, she  could  keep  in  no  longer,  and,  believing  herself  unseen, 
she  wept. 

He  both  saw  and  heard  her.  He  watched  her  in  silence  for 
some  time ;  then  drawing  back  the  curtain,  he  looked  at  her 
sorrowfully. 

"  Poor  Beatrice  !  "  he  said,  tenderly  and  pityingly,  "  what  a 
sad,  hard  life  yours  has  been,  and  must  ever  be  !  But  God  is 
my  witness,  when  I  took  you  and  brought  you  to  Verville,  I 
thought  to  give  you  another  life  than  this  ;  humble,  indeed,  but 
not  this  ! — not  this  !  " 

"  I  have  but  one  trouble,  Gilbert,  and  you  know  what  it  is." 

"  Ay !  Beatrice,  and  a  hard  one.  Let  us  speak  openly  for 
once.  You  will  be  a  young  widow,  and  you  will  have  three 
children  to  provide  for,  and  all  you  will  have  to  do  it  with  is  the 
house  in  Verville.     Sixty  pounds  a  year — poor  Beatrice  !  " 

"  Gilbert,  do  you  wish  to  break  my  heart,  that  you  speak 
so?" 

"  And  where  is  the  use  of  being  silent?  I  may  recover,  but 
it  will  only  be  to  fall  ill  again.  Do  you  think  that  I,  a  medical 
man,  can  be  deceived  about  my  real  state  ?  Beatrice,  my  con- 
stitution is  shattered,  I  fear  beyond  all  hope,  and  almost  the  best 
thing  for  you  is  that  I  should  die  speedily." 

"  Gilbert,  have  a  little  mercy  upon  me." 

"Well,  I  should  not  have  said  that,  poor  Beatrice  !  But  do 
not  apprehend  it.     Your  burden  will  last  some  time  yet." 

He  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  and  unwilling  to  meet  the  look  of 
her  sad,  reproachful  eyes,  unable,  too,  to  gaze  any  longer  on  her 
woe-begone  face,  he  turned  to  the  wall  and  closed  his  eyes  as  if 
to  sleep. 

Beatrice  remained  silent.  She  could  not  speak  ;  she  felt  in 
one  of  those  moods  when  the  burden  of  life  is  too  heavy.  Sud- 
denly, and  as  if  to .  render  the  present  more  bitter,  there  came 
back  to  her,  vivid  and  clear,  a  bright  dream  of  her  youth. 
Wakening  one  morning  in  Carnoosie,  Beatrice  had  seen  the  sun 
shining  in  her  room,  and  the  waving  shadow  of  young  trees 


BEATKIOE.  515 

moving  across  her  window-blinds ;  and  as  she  listened  to  the 
splash  of  the  fountains,  she  had  thought : 

"  If  fairy-tales  were  true,  and  that  I  had  a  fairy  godmother 
who  would  come  and  stand  by  my  bedside  and  bid  me  wish  a 
wish,  and  that  it  should  be  granted,  what  would  I  ask  for  ?  " 

Beatrice  was  puzzled.  She  was  young,  she  was  pretty  and 
rich,  and  she  was  well  born  too.  "What,  then,  should  the  wish 
be  ?  She  smiled  to  herself  as  her  fancy  pictured  a  lover,  young, 
handsome,  and  noble-hearted,  one  who  would  love  her  truly,  and 
whom  she  should  love  with  her  whole  heart.  Ay,  this  should  be 
the  wish ! 

So  she  dreamed,  as  girls  will  dream,  out  of  very  idleness ; 
and  fate,  that  perverse  fairy  godmother,  who  blesses  or  chastises 
her  darlings  according  to  her  caprices,  had  granted  the  wish, 
and,  by  granting  it,  had  made  Beatrice  wretched.  Ay  !  she  had 
had  the  lover,  the  ideal  man — she  had  had  him  more  than  lover, 
the  fond  and  devoted  husband,  and  how  had  it  ended  ?  Better, 
far  better  for  both  that  they  had  never  met.  She  had  dragged 
him  down  to  her  own  miserable  lot,  and  he  had  been  unable  to 
save  her.  She  had  been  his  torment,  and  he  had  not  been  her 
blessing.  They  loved — ^Heaven  alone  knew  how  truly  ! — but 
more  than  love  is  needed  in  life,  and  that  more  failed  them. 

A  tap  at  the  door  roused  her  ;  Beatrice  got  up  and  opened  it 
very  gently.  Outside  on  the  landing  she  found  her  landlady's 
little  daughter. 

"Please  ma'am,"  whispered  the  child,  "there's  a  gentleman 
below  who  wants  to  speak  to  you.  Mamma  asked  him  into  the 
parlour,  not  to  disturb  Mr.  Gervoise." 

Beatrice  gave  a  look  at  the  bed.  Gilbert  seemed  very  quiet. 
She  could  leave  him ;  so  she  softly  closed  the  door  and  went 
do^'n  to  the  parlour. 

It  was  some  time  before  she  came  back.  When  she  was 
within  view  of  the  door  of  her  husband's  room  Beatrice  stood 
still,  much  astonished. 

The  house  to  which  they  had  removed  on  leaving  the  cottage 
was  an  old  one,  in  an  old-fashioned  square.  The  staircase  was 
broad,  and  every  landing  was  broad  too.  Two  rooms  on  the 
second  floor,  and  a  kitchen  below,  were  all  Beatrice  had  now  ; 
and  her  two  doors  stood  rather  far  apart  on  the  landing,  which, 
as  we  said,  was  a  broad  one.  Yet  when  she  reached  it,  Bea- 
trice, who  had  left  a  light  burning  on  the  highest  step  of  the 
staircase,  was  struck  with  the  fact  that  the  dimensions  of  this 
landing  ^ere  considerably  diminished.     Some  dark  bundle  was 


(516  BEATRICE. 

placed  against  one  of  the  doors,  and  that  bundle  wore  a  white 
cap.  Had  one  of  the  children  got  up  out  of  bed  ?  She  seized 
the  candle  and  raised  it  so  that  the  light  fell  full  on  the  cap  and 
its  owner,  and  she  saw  no  less  a  person  than  Babet. 

There  was  a  bundle,  too,  and  on  that  bundle  Babet  was  sit- 
ting. She  leaned  against  the  door  with  folded  arms,  and  in  that 
attitude  gave  her  mistress  a  look  half-supplicating,  half-defiant. 

"  It  is  no  use  talking,  madam,"  she  said  to  Beatrice,  who  had 
not  opened  her  lips  ;  "  here  I  am,  and  here  I  mean  to  stay.  1 
went  back  to  Yerville  to  please  you,  but  not  even  to  please  you 
could  I  stay  there.  I  saw  him,  I  did,  the  upstart,  the  mean 
Parisian  fellow ! "  added  Babet,  with  flashing  eyes ;  '^  not  on 
horseback  like  Monsieur,  but  riding  in  a  cabriolet  of  his  own. 
And  as  he  knew  my  feelings,  he  rode  twice  a  day  past  the  house 
in  which  I  was.  You  do  not  think  I  was  going  to  stay  and 
please  him  by  seeing  that.  Besides,  how  have  you  been  getting 
on  without  me  ?  I  guess  that  Monsieur  is  ill  again,  and  you 
have  been  obliged  to  send  the  children  to  bed  at  this  hour  to 
mind  him.  As  to  the  furniture,  I  can  see  you  must  have  sold 
more  than  half.  For  how  much  would  fit  in  your  couple  of 
rooms?  Nothing.  The  good  mahogany  table  is  gone,  I  am 
sure,  and  you  wiU  never  get  another  like  it.  I  told  you  it  was  a 
bargain  when  you  bought  it ;  but  no,  you  would  have  your  own 
way,  and  send  away  Babet." 

"  Oh !  Babet !  Babet !  "  cried  Beatrice,  throwing  her  arms 
around  her  neck,  and  bursting  into  hysterical  tears,  "  you  did 
well  to  come  back  to  me,  I  have  been  wretched  without  you.  I 
am  wretched  still,  though  now,  Babet,  I  have  a  gleam  of  hope. 
Never  leave  me  again — never  !  " 

"  You  may  make  your  mind  easy  about  that,"  replied  Babet ; 
"  I  have  reared  Monsieur  from  a  boy,  and  nothing  shall  make 
me  go  away  again.     Where  am  I  to  go — in  there  ?  " 

"  Yes,  go  to  the  children — ^but,  Babet,  do  tell  me  how  you 
came  back  ?  " 

"  How  did  I  go  ?  "  asked  Babet,  who  had  got  up  from  her 
bundle,  and  was  shouldering  it  as  if  it  were  a  soldier's  knapsack ; 
"you  saw  me  off,  did  you  not?  Well,  I  saw  myself  on,  and  I 
got  here— of  course  I  did." 

Babet  spoke  almost  roughly ;  it  was  plain  she  still  felt 
wronged  at  her  dismissal ;  but  Beatrice  gave  her  a  bright,  for- 
giving smile,  and  entered  the  room  where  she  had  left  Gilbert 
sleeping. 

He  was  awake,  and  said  restlessly :  • 


BEATRICE.  617 

"Beatrice,  was  that  Babet's  voice?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "it  was.  Poor,  faithful  Babet  has 
come  back,  and  will  not  go  away  again ;  and  indeed  she  must 
not,  Gilbert,  must  she  ?  " 

"  Beatrice,  what  ails  you?  "  he  asked,  leaning  upon  one  elbow 
and  looking  at  her  earnestly. 

"  Gilbert,  I  cannot  help  it.  I  am  full  of  joy  and  of  sorrow, 
and  the  joy  is  the  greater  of  the  two.  Gilbert,  we  are  rich  now, 
and  if  going  to  a  mild  climate  will  save  you,  as  Doctor  Roger- 
son  once  siaid,  we  can  do  it.  Poor  little  Rosy  is  dead,  and  I  am 
mistress  of  Camoosie." 

Her  lips  quivered  as  she  spoke.  She  was,  as  she  said,  full 
of  joy,  and  full  of  sorrow.  She  remembered  Rosy,  bright, 
young,  and  gay,  and  her  heart  ached ;  and  she  thought  of  Gil- 
bert, saved  and  restored  to  health,  and  her  heart  beat  with  hope 
and  joy. 

"Beatrice,  are  you  sure  of  this?" 

"  I  am,  indeed,  Gilbert ;  the  lawyer  who  came  to  tell  me  has 
not  been  gone  ten  minutes.  I  am  as  sure  of  it  as  that  I  stand 
here." 

She  told  him  the  little  that  she  knew  about  Rosy's  death ; 
but  she  did  not  tell  him  that  Camoosie  was  burned  down,  nor 
who  had  done  it. 

"  Poor  little  thing ! "  he  said  sadly ;  "  what  a  life,  and  what 
an  ending ! " 

"  But,  Gilbert,  what  do  you  think  of  yourself?  "  said  Beatrice, 
anxiously ;  "  do  you  not  think  that  change  of  climate  will  restore 
you?" 

He  stretched  out  his  hand  and  drew  her  toward  him. 

"  I  think,"  he  said  gently,  "  that,  whatever  happens  now,  I 
can  at  least  die  in  peace ;  that  God  has  done  for  you  what  I 
could  not  do — Beatrice,  whether  I  live  or  die,  a  weight  of  bitter 
cares  is  taken,  off  me." 

And  so  that  was  all  the  comfort  he  could  give  her.  She 
looked  at  him  drearily. 

"  Why  will  you  not  let  me  be  happy?  "  she  asked ;  "  why  will 
you  take  hope  from  me  ?  " 

"  Beatrice,  whether  I  live  or  die,  remember  that  I  have  had 
some  exquisitely  happy  hours,  and  that  these  hours  I  have  owed 
to  you." 

Beatrice  checked  her  tears,  which  had  already  begun  to 
flow. 


518  BEATRICE. 

"  You  must  not  die,"  she  said  resolutely ;  "  you  must  live  and 
be  rich,  honoured,  and  happy.  The  years  of  leisure  of  which  I 
have  robbed  you  I  can  give  back  to  you  now,  and  you  shall  have 
them  every  one.  You  shall  have  a  laboratory  like  Mr.  Flem- 
ing's, and  you  shall  pay  clever  men  to  help  you,  and  you  will  be 
kind  to  them,  Gilbert,  and  the  world  shall  hear  your  name  and 
praise  it,  and  it  shall  not  be  said  of  you  that  you  married  the 
mistress  of  Carnoosie,  but  that  the  mistress  of  Carnoosie  married 
you.  And  we  shall  live  years,  I  say,  and  our  children  will  grow 
up  around  us,  and  not  be  left  orphans  ere  they  have  known  their 
father." 

"So  be  it,"  replied  Gilbert,  half  smiling;  "Beatrice  I  shall 
be  very  glad  to  stay." 

In  the  meanwhile  Babet  was  very  busy.  Her  first  act  was 
to  unpack  her  bundle,  and  in  so  doing,  cautious  of  making  a  noise 
though  she  was,  she  succeeded  in  wakening  Charlie.  His  eyes 
opened  and  grew  round  again  with  amazement,  as  he  recognized 
the  brown  and  familiar  face  of  Babet.  He  knew  not  merely 
Babet,  but  Babet's  white  coif,  and  her  black  kerchief  pinned  down 
her  back  and  across,  her  chest,  and  her  broad  apron  ;  it  was  the 
real  Babet  from  head  to  foot,  and  no  mistake. 

^  "  Babet !  Babet !  "  he  said,  clapping  his  hands  with  joy. 
She  turned  round  and  smiled  brightly  at  him,  and  went  and 
hugged  him  with  jealous  fondness. 

"  You  did  not  tell  me  to  go,  my  darling,"  she  said,  between 
two  hearty  kisses.  "  You  would  never  have  bid  Babet  leave 
you — never  !  would  you,  my  treasure  ?  " 

"No,"  stoutly  replied  Charlie ;  "  and  I  cried  so  when  you 
went,  Babet — a  whole  hour,  I  did." 

"  Of  course  you  did,  for  if  you  are  like  your  mother,  you 
have  got  your  father's  heart,  you  have,  my  darling  !  God  bless 
you  !     Babet  will  never  leave  you  now — mind  that." 

This  conversation,  which  was  carried  on  in  rather  a  loud  key, 
wakened  the  twins  in  their  little  cot ;  but  being  too  young,  pei'- 
haps,  to  appreciate  the  full  blessing  of  Babet's  return,  they  only 
set  up  each  a  shrill  scream,  which  filled  the  whole  house.  At 
once  the  door  of  the  other  room  opened,  and  Beatrice  appeared 
with  a  smile  on  her  face. 

"  Come  in  to  your  master,  Babet,"  she  said ;  "  he  wants  to 
see  you." 

And  whilst  Babet  went  in  muttering,  "  Of  course  he  does," 
Beatrice,  after  pacifying  the  twins,  took  them  one  on  each  arm, 


BEATBICE.  519 

and,  followed  by  Charlie  clinging  to  her  skirt,  she  entered  the 
room  where  Babet  was  crying  pitifully  by  her  master's  bed. 

"  Nonsense  !  "  said  Beatrice,  almost  gaily.  ''He  is  not  ill — 
or,  if  he  is,  he  will  soon  get  well.  You  nursed  him  through  his 
illness  when  he  was  a  boy,  and  you  will  nurse  him  through  this, 
and  we  are  all  going  away,  says  Doctor  Rogerson." 

So,  indeed,  had  said  that  poor  gentleman,  who  was  now 
standing  at  the  further  end  of  the  room  writing.  He  looked  up 
on  hearing  his  name,  and  smiled  faintly. 

"  There  is  no  cause  for  fear,"  he  said,  though  there  may  be 
some  for  care." 

''  Trust  him  to  Babet,"  said  Beatrice. 

And  Babet  looked  conceited,  and  her  looks  said  what  her 
tongue  did  not  exactly  care  to  utter : 

"  Of  course  you  may  trust  him  to  me  ;  you  know  what  he 
was  when  I  had  the  care  of  him,  and  you  see  yourself  what  a 
hand  you  made  of  him." 

Doctor  Rogerson  took  his  leave,  and  Beatrice  followed  him 
out. 

"Oh!  Doctor,"  she  whispered,  "is  it  quite  true? — may  I 
really  hope  ?  " 

"  Indeed  you  may-— on  my  word,  I  can  say  no  more — ^you 
may." 

"  Then  I  shall  be  too  happy,  that  is  all,"  for  the  weather  had 
got  mild  again,  and  they  were  to  leave  in  all  speed — so  Doctor 
Rogerson  had  said. 

She  felt  too  happy  when  she  went  back  to  her  husband.  She 
felt  it,  and  she  said  it  to  Gilbert,  to  Babet,  to  the  children. 

"  Babet,"  she  at  length  added,  "  I  forgot  to  tell  you  the  great 
news.  We  are  rich  again,  quite  well  off.  We  shall  have  plenty 
of  money  now." 

"  Well,  I  am  glad  of  that,"  solemnly  replied  Babet,  who  did 
not  realize  perhaps  all  that  Beatrice  meant  by  plenty  of  money  ; 
"but  take  my  word  for  it,  you  will  never  get  a  mahogany  table 
like  it — never  ! " 

Beatrice  laughed,  and  Gilbert  smiled,  and  Charlie  jumped, 
and  the  twins  looked  grave  and  sleepy,  and  they  were  all  very 
happy,  and  surely  they  could  not  help  it.  But,  poor  little  Rosy, 
you  did  well  to  die  ! 

A  year  has  passed  ;  Gilbert  is  in  his  laboratory  in  the  south 
of  France,  and  Beatrice  has  sent  Babet  to  fetch  him ;  and  as 


620  BEATRICE. 

Babet  opens  the  door,  and  looks  him  at  him,  and  sees  him  as  tall 
and  straight  and  handsome  as  ever,  she  thinks  with  pride,  "  See 
what  I  made  him  !  " 

And  dreary  look  the  blackened  runs  of  Carnoosie ;  frost 
locks  up  the  four  fountains,  and  the  winter  wind  moans  along 
the  avenue  of  tall,  bare  trees,  and  the  deer  reign  alone  in  what 
was  once  Beatrice's  kingdom. 


THE  END, 


D,  Appleton  S  CoJ's  Pvhlicationa. 


WORKS    OF    FICTION 


Grace  Agruilar's  "Works. 


\ 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.     12mo.    Cloth. 

HOME  INFLUENCE.     12mo.     Cloth. 

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"Grace  Aguilar's  works  possess  attractions  which  will  alw»T* 
place  them  amonff  the  standard  writings  which  no  library  can  b* 
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be  read  by  both  young  and  old." 

A  Novel  by  a  New  Autlior. 

ROUND  TBE  BLOCK.     An  American  NotcL 

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«nthor  being  neither  a  politician  nor  a  reformer,  but  a  story-teller, 
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written  in  the  happiest  style.'* 

Alice  B.  Haven's  Novels. 

THE  COOPERS ;  or,  GETTING  UNDER  WAY. 
LOSS  AND  GAIN;  or,  MARGARET'S  HOME. 

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ous  juvenile  works  of  a  popular  character,  only  wrote  two  works  of 
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that  walk  of  literature.  They  both  bear  the  impress  of  a  mind  whoM 
purity  of  heart  was  proverbial. 


D,  Appleton  d>  Co.'^s  JPublications, 


Jtdia  Kavanagrli's  Work0. 

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ness,  of  that  serene  and  gentle  wisdom  which  comes  from  no  source 
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2  D.  APPLETON  &  GO'S  NEW  PUBLICATIONS. 

The  American  Annual  Encyclo- 
paedia, 

And  Register  of  Important  Events  of  the  year  1862.  Embracing 
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Government,  commerce,  <fec.,  &c. ;  the  proceedings  in  the  Confederate  States  to 
maintain  the  war  and  establish  their  government;  also,  the  progress  of  foreign 
nation  ;  the  developments  in  the  physical  sciences;  the  progress  of  literature; 
mechanical  inventions  and  improvements,  embracing  the  results  of  the  British 
Industrial  Exhibition;  the  principles  involved,  and  the  developments  in  plating 
ships  with  iron  ;  descriptions  of  the  most  useful  patents;  the  present  statistics  of 
the  religious  denominations ;  and  biographical  sketches  of  the  eminent  persons 
deceased  in  1862,  &c. 

The  United  States  Bank  Law: 

An  Act  to  Provide  a  National  Currency,  secured  by  a  pledge  of 
United  States  Stocks,  and  to  provide  for  the  circulation  and  Ee- 
demption  thereof. 

The  Pentateuch  and  Book  of 


Joshua^ 


Critically  examined.     By  the  Right  Eev.  John  "Wm.  Colenso, 

Bishop  of  Natal.     2  Vols.,  12mo. 

"Bishop  Colenso's  books,  in  which  the  genuineness  and  authenticity  of 
the  earlier  portions  of  the  Old  Testament  are  doubted,  or,  as  he  expresses 
it,  his  'arguments  to  prove  the  non-Mosaic  and  unhistorical  character  of  the 
Pentateuch,'  have  created  intense  interest  in  England." — Chicago  Post. 


Man's  Cry,  and  God's  Gracious 
Answer, 

A  Contribution  Toward  the  Defence  of  the  Faith.     By  Rev.  B. 
Franklin. 

"  A  thoughtful  discussion  of  theism— or  man's  need  of  a  God,  and  what 
kind  of  a  God;  and  of  Christianity— or  God's  gracioui  answer  to  that  need, 
And  how  it  is  an  aas^Qx:'—Congregationalist. 


D.  APPLETON  &  GO'S  NEW  PUBLICATIONS.  3 

Prof.  Huxley's  Lectures  "On  the 
Origin  of  Species.'^ 

1  Vol.  12mo. 
1.  The  Present  Condition  of  Organic  Nature.— 2.  The  Past  Con- 
dition of  Organic  Nature. — 3.  The  Method  by  which  the  Causes 
of  the  Present  and  Past  Conditions  of  Organic  Nature  are  to  be 
discovered.     The    Origination  of  Living   Beings. — 4.  The  Per- 
petuation of  Living  Beings,  Hereditary  Transmission  and  Variation. 
— 5.  The  Condition  of  Existence  as  affecting  the  Perpetuation  of 
Living  Beings. — 6,  A  Critical  Examination  of  the  Position  of  Mr. 
Darwin's  Work  "  On  the  Origin  of  Species,"  in  relation  to  the 
complete  Theory  of  the  Causes  of  the  Phenomena  of  Organic 
Nature. 
"  Readers  who  cannot  accept  Mr.  Darwin's  doctrines  and  conclusion^  will  still 
be  delighted  with  these  lectures,  since  they  embody  so  much  curious  informa- 
tion and  so  many  important  principles  of  biological  science,  expressed  so  clearly 
as  to  render  the  book,  even  to  readers  possessing  scarcely  any  previous  knowl- 
edge of  the  subject,  not  only  intelligible  but  more  interesting  than  any  romance." 
—  Weldori's  Eeginter 

Lectures  on  the  Symbohc  .Char- 
acter of  the  Scriptures. 

By  Rev.  Abiel  Silver^  Minister  of  the  New  Jerusalem  Church. 
1  Vol.,  12mo.     286  pages. 

These  lectures,  delivered  to  a  mixed  congregation  during  the  past  winter, 
are  now  given  to  the  public. 

"The  author  assures  the  reader,  who  has  not  looked  into  the  spiritual  sense 
of  the  Holy  Word,  that  if  he  has  a  desire  to  do  so,  and  will  study  the  science  of 
correspondences,  and  read  these  simple  illustrations  of  the  sacred  Scrijjturcs, 
with  a  sincere  desire  to  become  acquainted  with  the  Word  of  God  that  he  may 
the  better  know  his  Heavenly  Father,  his  own  soul,  and  the  true  way  of  life, 
that  he  may  walk  in  it,  the  Lord  will  open  to  his  mind  a  new  field  of  thought 
and  lead  him  to  a  fountain  of  heavenly  wisdom  which  he  will  prize  as  more  valu- 
able than  all  things  else ;  for  he  will  find  therein  the  true  life  of  Heaven."— 
Extract  from  Preface. 

The  ISTew   and   Complete  Tax- 
payer's Manual^ 

Containing  the  Direct  and  Excise  Taxes ;  with  the  Recent  Amend- 
ments of  Congress,  and  the  Decisions  of  the  Commissioner. 
Also,  complete  Marginal  References,  and  an  analytical  index, 
•bowing  all  the  Items  of  Taxation,  the  Mode  of  Proceeding,  and 
the  Duties  of  the  Officers,  with  an  Explanatory  Preface.  1  Vol. 
8vo,  184:  pages. 
An  indispensable  book  for  every  citizen. 


4  D.  APPLETON  &  GO'S  NEW  PUBLICATIONS. 

The  Crisis. 

1  Vol.,  8vo.     Paper  covers,  95  pages. 


Madge ; 


Or,  Night  and  Morning.  By  H.  G.  B..  1  Vol.,  12mo. 
From  the  Conf/regationalist. 
"It  contains  the  story  of  a  young  girl  'bound  out,'  as  the  custom  is  in  the 
New  England  villages,  ller  Northern  mistress  was  a  harsh,  selfish  and  unfeel- 
ing woman,  and  the  '  bound  girl's'  character  is  jtleasairtly  and  interestingly  por- 
trayed, as  it  becomes  moulded  and  hewn  out  by  the  hard  circumstances  of  her 
lot,  till  she  becomes  'purified  by  suffering,''  a  perfect  woman." 

The  New  American  Cyclopaedia. 

Edited  by  George  Ripley  and  Charles  A.  Dana.     Nqw  com- 
plete, in  16  vols.  8vo,  double  columns,  750  pages  each. 


The  leading  claims  to  public  consideration  which  the  New  American  Cyclo- 
pcsdia  possesses  may  be  thus  briefly  stated  : 

"1.  It  surpasses  all  other  similar  works  in  the  fulness  and  ability  of  the 
articles  relating  to  the  United  States. 

"2.  No  other  work  contains  so  many  reliable  biographies  of  the  leading 
men  of  this  and  other  nations.  In  this  respect  it  is  far  superior  even  to  the 
more  bulky  Encyclopedia  Britannica. 

"3.  The  best  minds  of  this  country  have  been  employed  in  enriching  its 
pages  with  the  latest  data,  and  the  most  recent  discoveries  in  every  branch  of 
manufactures,  mechanics,  and  general  science. 

"4.  It  is  a  library  in  itself,  where  every  topic  is  treated,  and  where  informa- 
tion can  be  gleaned  which  will  enable  a  student,  if  he  is  so  disposed,  to  consult 
other  authorities,  thus  affording  him  an  invaluable  key  to  knowledge. 

"5.  It  is  neatly  printed  with  readable  tj^pe  on  good  paper,  and  contains  a 
most  copious  index. 

"6.  It  is  the  only  work  which  gives  anything  approaching  correct  descrip- 
tions of  cities  and  towns  of  America,  or  embraces  reliable  statistics  showing  the 
■wonderful  growth  of  all  sections." 


Two  Pictures; 


Or,  ^Vhat  We  Think  of  Ourselves,  and  What  the  World  Thinks 
of  Us.  By  Maria  J.  McIntosh,  author  of  "  Two  Lives," 
*'  Charms  and  Countercharms,"  etc.     1  vol.,  12mo.,  476  pages. 

"  The  previous  works  of  Miss  Mcintosh  have  been  popular  in  the  best  sense 
of  the  word.  The  simple  beauty  of  her  narratives,  combining  pure  sentiment 
with  high  principle,  and  noble  views  of  life  and  its  duties,  ought  to  win  for  them 
a  hearing  at  every  fireside  in  our  land.  The  lapse  of  time  since  we  have  had  any 
work  of  fiction  from  her  pen,  has  only  served  to  increase  her  power." 

A  Glimpse  of  the  World. 

By  Miss  Sewell,  author  of   "Amy  Herbert,"  etc.    1  vol.,  12mo. 

Of  the  authores8"'s  style  and  language  it  would  be  superfluous  to  speak. 
The  simplicity  of  a  refined  nature,  the  ease  of  a  skilled  writer,  and  the  correct- 
ness of  an  industrious  one,  are  conspicuous  in  every  page.  There  is  no  straining 
»t  effect,  no  distortion  of  English  palmed  off  as  originality,  no  distrust  of  native 
vigor  evinced  by  a  recourse  to  artificial."— 2%e  Preas. 


D.  APPLETON  &  GO'S  NEW  PUBLICATIONS.  5 

The   History  of  Civilization  in 
England. 

By  Henry  Thomas  Buckle. — 2  vols.  8vo. 

Whoever  misses  reading  this  book,  will  miss  reading  -what  is,  in  rarious 
respects,  to  the  best  of  our  judgment  and  experience,  the  most  remarkable  book 
of  the  day — one,  indeed,  that  no  thoughtful,  inquiring  mind  would  miss  reading 
for  a  good  deal.  Let  the  reader  be  as  adverse  as  he  may  to  the  writer's 
philosophy,  let  him  be  as  tlevoted  to  the  obstructive  as  Mr.  Buckle  is  to  the  prog, 
ress  party,  let  him  be  as  orthodox  in  church  creed  as  the  other  is  heterodox, 
as  dogmatic  as  his  author  is  skeptical— let  him,  in  short,  find  his  prejudices 
shocked  at  every  turn  of  the  argument,  and  all  his  prepossessions  whistled  down 
the  wind— still  there  is  so  much  in  this  extraordinary  volume  to  stimulate 
reflection,  and  excite  to  inquiry,  and  provoke  to  earnest  investigation,  perhaps 
(to  this  or  that  reader)  on  a  track  hitherto  untrodden,  and  across  the  virgin  soil 
of  untilliBd  fields,  fresh  woods  and  pastures  new— that  we  may  fairly  defy  the 
most  hostile  spirit,  the  most  mistrustful  and  least  sympathetic,  to  read  it  through 
without  being  triad  of  having  done  so,  or,  having  begun  it,  or  even  glanced  at 
almost  any  one  of  its  864  pages,  to  pass  it  away  unread.— iV^ew  Monthly  {London) 
Magazine 

History  of  the  Romans  under 
-  the  Empire. 

By  Charles  Merivale,  B.D.,  late  Fellow  of  St.  John's  College. 
7  Vols,  small  8v6.  Handsomely  printed  on  tinted  paper. 

CONTENTS : 

Vols.  I  and  II. — Comprising  the  History  to  the  Fall  of  Julius 
Csesar. 

Vol.  III. — ^To  the  Establishment  of  the  Monarchy  by  Augustus. 
Vols.  rV.  and  V. — From  Augustus  to  Claudius,  B.C.  27  to  a.d.  54. 
Vol  VI. — From  the   Reign   of  Nero,  a.  d.  54,  to  the  Fall  of 

Jerusalem,  a.d.  70. 
Vol.  VII. — From  the  Destructioji  of  Jerusalem,  a.d.  70,  to  the 

Death  of  M.  Aurelius. 

Thl3  valuable  work  terminates  at  the  point  where  the  narrative  of  Gibbon 
commences. 

.  ..."  When  we  enter  on  a  more  searching  criticism  of  the  two  writers, 
it  must  be  admitted  that  Merivale  has  as  firm  a  grasp  of  his  subject  ns  Gibbon, 
and  that  his  work  is  characterized  by  a  greater  freedom  from  prejudice,  and 
a  sounder  philosophy. 

.  .  .  .  **  This  history  must  always  stand  as  a  splendid  monument  of  his 
learning,  his  candor,  and  his  vigorous  grasp  of  intellect.  Though  he  is  in  some 
respects  inferior  to  Macaniay  and  Grote,  he  must  still  be  classed  with  thein  as 
one  of  the  second  great  triumvirate  of  English  historians."- iV'o/'fA.  American 
Review,    April,  1868. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

RENEWALS  ONLY— TEL.  NO.  642-3405 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

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